The Remedies for Love
by BookishPower
Summary: Draco is an excellent Observer, a credit to the MLE during a questionable accidental death investigation. But can he figure out what's going on in his own head, in regards to his partner? Sequel to "The Observer." Dramione.
1. Chapter 1

Hello everyone! If you're just joining us, I would recommend going back and reading "The Observer," the story that precedes this one. It's probably not entirely necessary in terms of figuring out what's going on, but it does bring you to where our heroine and hero are in terms of jobs, relationships, and emotional development. In terms of a timeline, I would put this one at a few months after the end of "The Observer," specifically, around Christmas.

Higher rating for this one - some very graphic content in terms of crime scenes and violence, some sexual content.

* * *

 _One of our principal griefs comes from our rivals in love._

 _But you must not let yourself imagine a rival,_

 _Better believe she lies all by herself in her bed._

 _When Hermione left to become the bride of another,_

 _Then Orestes' love burst into passionate flame._

 _Menelaus could sail, alone, to Crete without Helen;_

 _Why should he grieve over that? He could be absent for long._

 _When Paris carried her off, that was a different story._

 _Through another man's love, he realized the depth of his own._

 _\- From "The Remedies for Love" by Ovid_

* * *

"Investigator Malfoy!"

Draco's head whipped around to see who addressed him from across the row of desks in the MLE offices.

Under normal conditions, the sight of Harry Potter approaching him while grinning like a loon would have him backing up and raising his wand in self-defense. But Potter looked so ebullient, he settled for a loose grip of his wand's base inside its holster.

"Auror Potter," he said cautiously. "The Weasley girl accepted your proposal of marriage again?"

The Boy-Who-Lived-Quite-High-on-the-Hog simply threw back his head and laughed. "A good guess, but not quite. A wonderful day to you!"

Draco watched in confusion as Potter bounced off in the direction of the Aurors' Department.

"Right," he said to no one in particular. "Okay, then."

After roughly three years in the Investigations Department, Draco was more or less accepted by the members of his office. Whether this meant that they'd back him up in an argument, or admit to being civil to him outside of the department, he didn't know. What he did know was that the crude drawings and etchings on his desk had disappeared, that his appearance wasn't a cause for hostile stares and frowns, and that he even warranted an invite to the department's functions.

So when he worked his way through the department to his office, he nodded at and was nodded to by several receptionists, was greeted jovially by Oddsbodds in the corridor, and thanked Mullaney for the "There's Christmas cookies in the break room" tip.

The new faces in the department, however, were still apt to be unfriendly or downright challenging. Case in point: Benjamon Butterfield, who shared the office with himself and Hermione. An evidence specialist, Benjamon rarely went out in the field with them, busy as he was in the department's laboratory. The little Christmas wreath that Hermione had crafted was still hanging on the door, so Benjamon hadn't pulled it down in a fit of temper.

He poked his head into the office warily. No Benjamon, just Hermione, quill trailing over the parchment of her report in a dreamy fashion.

"Oh, good. Butterfield's not here."

Hermione looked up at the sound of his voice, beaming like a star.

"No, we're all very lucky this morning," she grinned.

Draco blinked. "Is this catching? Potter sailed by me this morning looking like he's high on something. His own sense of self-importance, I'd guess."

"No, let's play the game. Me first." Not long after they'd become Investigative partners, they'd begun this game to keep themselves sharp. Played during their morning greetings or during coffee breaks, they challenged each other to find one new thing about the other person, or several things about the people they observed during coffee breaks. It kept them amused, kept them observant, and led to an embarrassing personal revelation every once in a while, so it was somewhat worth it, Draco supposed.

"Right now?" he asked, furrowing his brow while shrugging off his cloak.

"Right now," she confirmed, still smiling. "I'll start. Your father was left-handed."

Draco blinked, pausing in the act of hanging his cloak behind the door. "That's right," he said, a bit surprised. "But that's not an observation about me, and you could have remembered that from any of your previous…run-ins with him."

Hermione smiled like a cat with the cream. "It is, and I'll explain," she replied. "You're right-handed, but you wear your watch on that same right hand. Most people don't wear their watch on their dominant hand – unless one of their parents has a different dominant hand. In that case, they might wear the watch on their dominant hand – like you do."

Draco sank into his chair, eyebrows still raised. "Impressive. How long have you been holding onto that one?"

"A little while," she admitted, tossing her braid over her shoulder, "but I needed to use a really good one today."

"Why's that?" Draco asked, unscrewing the lid of his coffee thermos. "Same reason Potter looks like he's high on a Cheering Charm?"

"Probably," she returned, folding her arm to prop up her chin. "Go ahead and guess, then."

"Let a man drink his coffee, Hermione. You know I'm useless without the first sip."

"Fine," she huffed, looking put out, "but if you don't guess this one straight away, I'm going to start to doubt your ability as an Investigator."

Draco purposefully took a long sip, humming in exaggerated delight at the coffee's taste, while Hermione continued to stare at him in a way that made him slightly uneasy. He took another sip, turning to face her, when the glint of shining metal, like a warning beacon, caught his eye. Draco's stomach gave a hard lurch, as if he'd been caught in a malfunctioning lift.

He choked, thumped himself on the chest, and managed a hard swallow that felt like knives in his throat.

"You're engaged," he rasped. "To Weasley, I'm guessing?"

Hermione broke out into a radiant grin. Everything about her seemed to be shining – eyes, hair, skin, teeth. She tossed a crumpled piece of parchment at his head playfully. "Of course it's Ron. Who else would it be?"

 _Anyone else_ , he thought, but did not say. "Congratulations," he said, because it was the polite thing to do. "How did he ask you?"

Hermione's smile slipped the tiniest bit – an observation he would keep to himself. "He took me out to dinner at the Leaky Cauldron, then he jumped up on top of the bar and shouted it out. Everybody started cheering. It'll be nice to be engaged for Christmas." Her cheeks pinked as she spoke.

"He didn't get down on a knee?" Draco asked, allowing the surprise into his voice.

"No," Hermione replied, and continued, in a more defensive tone, "I don't really hold with that old tradition, anyway."

Draco thought this was the singularly most unromantic proposal that he'd ever heard of. For one thing, a man went down on his knee to a woman as a sign of respect, as an acknowledgement that she did him the honor, not the other way round. For another, proposals before an audience were manipulative. If one proposed to a woman in a secluded area, it meant that the words were for her ears alone, and gave her all the power. It showed that the man was placing himself in her hands. Proposing in a busy area with a cheering crowd meant that the man was willing to use public pressure as a way to get the woman to say yes. What else could she say with the fear of disappointing a crowd who would undoubtedly report the details to the _Daily_ _Prophet_?

"Ah," he said, lightly flicking away her defense. "I'll bet it's in the Prophet. Have you two set a date?"

"Not yet," Hermione said, examining her ring once again. "I'm thinking in the fall, but we'll have to figure that out soon. You're invited, of course."

Draco smiled, a practiced motion, before flicking his gaze away to the morning's reports. "Of course," he replied, turning so that she couldn't see his face. "You'll have to get registered somewhere and tell me."

Lighter than a wisp of silk, Hermione reached out and brushed her hand against his. He stilled at the touch, every point in his body suddenly concentrated on the small patch of skin that she was in contact with.

"I'd ask you to stand for me," she said in a rush, "but Ron's got so many brothers, and Harry's standing as best man for him, and we need to keep it small, and I didn't think you would want to be in the feminine side of the entourage."

Draco also supposed that the sheer number of Weasleys would mean that they would dominate the decision-making in this wedding. Very daring, he brushed her fingers back with his own. "Hermione, I'm touched, I really am. Maid-of-honor, though, should really go to the youngest Weasley – she'll fill out the dress far better than I ever would."

Hermione smiled warmly at him, and the cool band of her ring stung against his skin as she withdrew her hand.

When his face was hidden from Hermione's view, under the guise of searching for a file in his desk drawer, his face pinched, and he rubbed at the crinkle of skin formed by the furrowing of his brow. A few moments later, he unbent himself, composed, and began surveying the day's reports in from the Analysis branch. He could hear the scratch of Hermione's quill against her parchment, meaning that she'd gone back to her work.

Minutes and a few more sips of coffee later, Oddsbodds burst into their office.

"Oh, good, I'm not interrupting wedding chatter. You two are needed in Little Flagley. Initial reports are of a potions accident, one dead, one taken to hospital," he fired out. "Congratulations, by the way, Miss Granger."

"Thank you, sir," Hermione piped up in a small voice.

"You can Floo in to the Flagpole Pub, or you can Apparate in the square, and follow the hullabaloo," he continued, as if Hermione had not spoken. "I'll be along shortly."

 _Thank_ _Merlin_. Now he'd have someone else's woes to distract him.

* * *

Hermione, he noted absently, had removed her new ring before they Flooed into the little pub, and he felt something in his shoulders relax.

The pub itself, however, was in an uproar. Their arrival seemed only to complicate things, as people correctly began to interpret their arrival as a new development.

"Excuse us, excuse us," Hermione said softly, trying to get through the crowd and duck any questions. Draco just scowled and pushed, since the crowd should know better than to delay them in getting to the scene.

The crowd eventually parted enough to let them out into the crisp winter air. Draco had only ever been to Little Flagley on Investigations business, and doubted that he would ever be back on anything but business. The town was quaint enough, if that sort of thing appealed. But aside from a small collection of wizarding shops, a wishing well, and a small cemetery, it was a far cry from the bustle of Diagon Alley or even Hogsmeade. This town seemed to appeal to those who wanted a quiet, private life.

There was no question of where the trouble was – if the crowd gathered outside the small cottage wasn't clue enough, the purple smoke emanating from an open window would have attracted some attention.

"Is that toxic, or is something burning?" Hermione asked, as they broke into a jog over the crunching snow.

"Dunno," he called back, then spotted the familiar swinging black cloaks. "Look, there's the squad."

They pushed through the gathered crowd, past the secured line, and before the eyes of a familiar squad member.

"Hello, Frances," Hermione said calmly, greeting the older woman. "What's the story?"

Frances Ferguson gestured them forward, out of earshot of the crowd. "Skeeter's not here, but it's only a matter of time."

They stepped into the modest bungalow, Draco looking around for the source of the smoke. The air was thick with the scent of chemical smoke and a sick undernote of charred meat. He knitted his brow and paused at the threshold, but figured it must be fairly safe if the MLE had been inside. The interior of the home was quite basic – whoever lived here didn't have much to spend, but a little Christmas tree twinkled blithely in the window, and Draco felt a sick turning of his stomach as he took in the children's toys scattered about the living room.

Ferguson must have caught his moment of hesitation, and shook her head. "From what we can tell, it was the blast that killed her, not the smoke or any contact with the potion."

"Who?" Hermione said softly, at his shoulder. She had closed the door, having already cast a silent Impervius on her hands.

"Naomi Thiessen," Ferguson replied, indicating a framed portrait of a pretty young woman with dark, curly hair, smiling and waving at them, a little boy who resembled her waving more shyly. "She brewed potions for locals, so they didn't have to make a trip to bigger towns. The explosion happened in her lab over there."

"The boy?" Draco indicated the picture.

"Nigel, about six, I think," Ferguson said, her eyes finally shifting from professional detachment to sorrow. "He looked all right to me, but we took him to St. Mungo's to get him checked out. I think he was still asleep when the explosion happened, went running to a neighbor, who had already contacted us when they heard it."

"Family?" he asked, looking at the other pictures, most of which showed Nigel in various laughing poses. He caught an odd look from Hermione, since the scene was their immediate concern.

"Still working that out," Ferguson replied, also casting an eye at the portraits. "I don't think there's a father in the picture, but we'll have it sorted soon."

"How about the scene itself?" asked Hermione, jerking her chin in the direction of the smoking room. "Clear for us to examine?"

The bang of a closing door, followed by shuffling footsteps, echoed in the little house. Draco guessed that MLE had just cleared the scene.

"As near as we can tell," Ferguson said hesitantly. "You heard them making the final check. Ms. Thiessen's body is still there, but we can't find anything that's obviously spilled or toxic around the body. There was a small fire burning when we got here, but a simple Extinguishing Spell took care of that."

"Did they walk around the body?" Draco snapped, remembering that the MLE was just now phasing in a new, untried bunch of recruits. They'd spend the next two hours on their backs holding their booted feet in the air if Draco found that they'd tainted the scene. He'd devised the punishment for the last group who tainted a scene, and it had been an effective deterrent.

"Just me and Bibulus," Ferguson replied, waving them through the darkened house in the direction of the smoking room. "You might want Bubble-Head Charms for this one."

"They called in an Auror?" Hermione asked in surprise, her words slightly distorted by the bubble that enveloped her head. "That's unusual for an accident."

"I know. He wouldn't say why, just that he'd been ordered to check things out." Ferguson paused uncomfortably, brushing her braids off of her shoulders. "If you'll activate your Soft Steps, we can go in."

Hermione shared a sharp look with him before Ferguson, charming her own Bubble-Head, pushed open the door. Draco and Hermione both activated their Soft Steps Charms, a patented device allowing them to step into a crime scene without contaminating or disturbing the evidence therein. It took a bit of practice to walk in them – he always had the odd sensation that he was floating a hands-width above the floor. Draco had heard Oddsbodds complain about the astronomical renewal price on the Charms for his department in private, but never in public, where their department head might overhear.

As they stepped inside, Draco thought it might have been a tidy little potions lab at one point – despite a coating of dust and debris, the wall farthest from the explosion point looked as if it had been neat and well-organized, brimming with order forms and brewed potions, despite their current disarray. Draco was gratified to see that Naomi Thiessen had been a responsible potion-brewer and used shatterproof glass – he hated the hazards created when a large group of different potions were mixed.

On the other side of the room, it was a different story.

Observing it with an Investigator's eye, Draco ignored the body for the moment and focused on the blast radius. The explosion had been contained to a small area – but was intensely violent in that area. The oaken table that Thiessen had presumably used for brewing had been reduced to a mass of splinters. Shards of glass (breakable under the right circumstances) glittered in the rubble, among bits of charred parchment and wood. The cauldron, presumably the one used in the mishap, lay in a corner, its shape distorted and its bottom blown out.

Draco considered all of this carefully, then turned his gaze to where Hermione was, at the side of what was left of Naomi Thiessen. He watched as Hermione pursed her lips hard, a sign that she was reining herself in, and bent over Thiessen's corpse where it lay sprawled on the stone floor.

Thiessen had certainly been facing the explosion when it happened – the grand majority of her front was not there. What had once been a pretty face now looked like a sandblasted piece of raw meat. Draco could see bits of gleaming bone amidst the bloody tissue and muscle. Where her mouth should have been gaped a hole, where her chest had once been was a smashed array of bone, muscle, and blood, littered with bits of broken glass and other debris. One arm was attached only by some tendons.

Slowly, Draco began to rein himself in as well. This was no longer a woman, this was a piece of evidence. Granted, it was a piece of evidence to be treated with the utmost respect and care, but he needed to get to the mindset that would allow him to work.

"I pronounced her a minute or two after I got here." Ferguson's clipped tone broke through the silence. "We'll need to get someone in here who knew her to make a positive identification, but other than that…"

"About what time did the boy report the explosion?" Draco asked, glancing at his watch (which was on his right hand, he noted, with detached amusement.)

"About forty-five minutes ago," Ferguson said, nodding with approval at the direction of his thoughts. "Another few minutes and we'll know for certain."

Before a positive identification could be made nowadays, a witch or wizard had to remain sequestered for an hour, to determine whether or not Polyjuice was in use. Even dead bodies would return to their previous state within an hour, if the person had drunk the potion a few minutes prior to their death.

"Did her son say what alerted him?" Hermione asked, not taking her eyes off of the body while fiddling with the light adjustment on the camera around her neck. "I mean, was it the noise, or a smell, or what?"

"I'm not sure," Ferguson replied. "He just said that his mother was in trouble. We can ask him a few questions later, once St. Mungo's has him checked out. I'll check on that, if you don't mind. I'll be right outside the house."

She stepped out, and Draco suspected that St. Mungo's and the MLE headquarters weren't the only ones who would be getting a call. Ferguson had two children of her own.

He shook his head, irritably pushing away those thoughts, and studied the scene once more.

"A contained blast, but very violent," he murmured to Hermione, squatting beside her. "Must have been very sudden, else she might have had time to get away or do something."

Hermione nodded, looking about them. "Do you see her wand?" she asked. "Chances are it was probably obliterated, but it's certainly worth looking at if it's around."

Draco shook his head. "Check out the cauldron. Distorted, but still intact. Just looking at her, I'd say that she was standing over it."

"Probably adding an ingredient or performing a spell," Hermione said, completing his thought, taking a few more pictures. " _Accio_ Naomi Thiessen's wand!"

With an almost apologetic air, five wand fragments dislodged themselves from the debris and zoomed into Hermione's evidence bag.

"It's pretty bad," she said, looking down at the bits of wand, "but if I can repair it, or Butterfield can, we can at least see an echo of the last spell she performed."

Draco only half-heard what she was saying, eyeing the powdery debris around Thiessen's body, continuing to emit small streams of indigo smoke.

"That Extinguisher Spell works for most things, doesn't it?"

"Hmm?" Hermione looked up from her perusal of the body. "Oh yes. Whatever the spell didn't get, the Inertia Powder will have taken care of."

"Ah." Draco attempted to cover for his embarrassment. "Can I take the camera? I can get a few pictures of the smoke in progress."

Hermione tutted. "When will you learn to bring your own?" It was a familiar argument.

"Never," Draco said, taking the camera with an offhand manner. "I much prefer using yours." He threw the camera strap around his head and went to work.

Observing how much glitter there was in the rubble as the flash illuminated the scene, Draco groaned. "We may have a problem," he muttered. Glancing at the wall near the door, he found a tattered photograph of Thiessen grinning in front of her potions bench, Nigel waving at up at him from his perch on the bench. His attention, however, was on the shelves behind them, colorful jars of potions and ingredients shelved just above the work area. Easy reach, and easy contamination of any potions wreckage. He groaned.

"What's that?" Hermione asked, not raising her eyes from a battered lockbox, trying to pry it open.

"I thought there was an awful lot of glass in the debris," he said, showing her the photograph, noting her understanding frown. "She didn't keep her ingredients in a locked cabinet or anything. She kept them on shelves above the workbench." He gestured at the blast area. "Figuring this combination out is going to take forever."

"Maybe," replied Hermione, returning to fiddling with the lockbox, "or maybe not. She brewed potions for the locals, right? She has to have order forms around here somewhere. She'd probably keep them away from the lab to keep from spilling on them or something. Then we at least have a list of base potions to work from… _Alohomora_!"

With a drawn-out groan, the box creaked open, hinges protesting after the beating they'd taken. Hermione gingerly drew out a small order book and leafed through it. "There we are. Order forms since…ooh, October. That should give us a good base to work from, right?"

"Should," Draco agreed, taking multiple pictures of the suspect cauldron. The only one in this part of the room, a jumble of mixed cauldrons of varying metals and sizes on the other side suggested that they'd been cleaned and stacked for storage. "This might tell us quite a bit as well."

"Taking it to Butterfield?" Hermione grinned up in his direction, at odds with the carnage of the scene.

Draco sighed heavily, conjuring a clean crate for the cauldron. "Three more months. Three more months and then that moron is eligible for shift transfer. Any luck, and he'll be put on the night shift, and we'll get someone who's nice and relatively normal."

"Considering the two of us, normal's not exactly a relative term," retorted Hermione, sounding amused. "In the meantime, though…"

"Yes, in the meantime I will continue to restrain myself and show admirable tact in the face of his overwhelming lack of tact or regard for human feeling or foibles," he shot off, rapid-fire. "I believe that was your speech?"

"It was," Hermione said, already sounding distracted. "There are forty potions she received orders for in the last three days, and that doesn't include potions that needed a longer brewing time. I wonder if she experimented?"

"MLE will probably ask, but remind Ferguson when she gets back," Draco murmured, examining the pressure marks on the sturdy cauldron. "Kind of hard to tell under all this debris, but I think Thiessen brewed pretty cleanly, even if she didn't keep the best records in the world."


	2. Chapter 2

Analyst Benjamon Butterfield was undoubtedly good at his job. Draco repeated this to himself often, as a matter of necessity. He needed Butterfield to do his job. The only problem was in getting Butterfield to consider the job worthy of his time.

The other problem was in having to share office space with him.

Hermione shared a quick look with him as they approached the office early that afternoon, after finishing their preliminary investigation of the scene. Draco squared his shoulders and hefted the case holding the cauldron a bit higher, nodding at their office door to open.

"Should be an interesting job for you, mate," he said, gamely trying another one of Hermione's techniques. _See if you can interest him in the case!_ "Potion-maker blew herself up in Little Flagley, along with all her potions and lots of her ingredients, and wasn't so great at the record-keeping. If you could get anything off of this, it'd be a big help."

After a long pause, Butterfield looked up at him through wire-rimmed pince-nez sitting on his nose, not even glancing at Hermione as she settled at her desk. Gangling, freckled, and completely oblivious to normal behavioral cues, Draco privately thought that if he turned Butterfield's hair red, Hermione might think that her fiancee had taken to sharing their office.

"In case you've forgotten, Investigator Malfoy, I am _not_ a _house-elf_ ," Butterfield replied in his flat voice. "If you would like to fill out an analysis form, then I can do my _job_ accordingly."

Draco tapped the side of the box. "Already done and sitting on top of the box," he replied triumphantly. "But if you could rush this one, I think her six-year-old son would appreciate it. Boy has no mother now, and it would be good to know if we need to look for a suspect in this."

Butterfield's expression didn't waver. "Then tell her son that his mother should have blown herself up yesterday. I process evidence in the order in which it is received."

Hermione, who had done a fairly good job of pretending not to listen to them, looked up, her face a picture of outrage.

"Then expect to get your order reassigned when I speak to Oddsbodds," Draco returned coolly. He'd heard far worse remarks, had made far worse himself. The only way to stop them was a subtle hint at authority crashing down on that person's head.

True to this form, Butterfield paused. "I'll do that when I receive it."

"Expect it," Draco said, letting the box drop on Butterfield's reports with a heavy _clank_. "Then expect a dressing-down from Oddsbodds and Grimmhaven. Expect it to take an hour, then expect to stay an hour after the rest of us have left finishing up the work you should be starting now."

"While you're both here," Butterfield said, apropos of nothing, "there's a matter I'd like to address regarding the spelling of my name. It is B-E-N-J-A-M-O-N, not B-E-N-J-A-M-I-N. Nor is it 'useless wanker I share an office with," he continued, leveling a glare at Draco, who didn't even bother looking repentant.

"It's an unusual spelling," Hermione said, standing up from behind the pile of evidence entry forms she was beginning to process. "I'm sure that if Draco and I have been spelling it wrongly on the forms, we'll remember now that you've told us."

"Perhaps," Benjamon continued. "In any case, I've devised a way for you to remember."

With a flourish, he pulled out a large brass plate, with attached itself to the front of his desk with a flick of his wand. It read,

 **This is the desk of Analyst Benjamon Butterfield. If he is not here, piling work on his desk will not help your case.**

"Read this and remember," Butterfield said, returning to his seat.

Draco shared a disbelieving look with Hermione, who looked like she was holding back laughter by sheer force of will alone, knuckles pressed against her lips.

"I'm sure we'll remember now," Draco said, his voice uneven with the snort he was repressing.

"See that you do," Butterfield returned icily. "Since this engraved plate benefits both you and Ms. Granger, you both owe me two galleons for its cost."

"What?" sputtered Hermione.

"That's not going to happen," Draco said smoothly.

"And why can't it?" Butterfield returned, looking belligerent.

"Because every expense that we incur here has to be submitted and approved by Accounting," he said seriously. "Every job aid, whether it's processing a crime scene or remembering the spelling of a name, must be approved. Or, if you'd like, we could all be up in front of an Ethics committee."

Butterfield glared at him.

"I'm sure if you can justify this to Accounting, however, they'll be happy to reimburse you," Draco said, aware that his voice was no longer even close to serious. "I'm on a coffee run. Hermione?"

"Yes, please!" she replied, turning a brilliant smile on him for his neutralizing Butterfield.

He nodded pleasantly in her direction, and slipped out the door.

It was still fairly quiet within the department – the explosion in Little Flagley was gruesome, but no one saw the death of a potion-brewer while brewing potions as particularly suspicious or unusual. Aurors were still paying more attention to their normal activities, but there was a bit of a buzz in the normal MLE offices. Draco slowed down, and poked his head around a corner to see Rita Skeeter, mustard robes billowing, pacing in front of the front desk.

Timing his exit carefully, Draco took a position beside an exiting group of young wizards being released after being caught riding their brooms around Tower Bridge, sans Distraction Charms. The flurry created by relatives bailing them out provided ample cover for him to scoot out of the department.

He walked quickly, eager to get back to lunch and a perusal of the evidence. While he still attracted dirty looks and cutting remarks from people in the Ministry, most had simply grown used to his presence, looking through him like a pane of glass.

The coffee vendor that he and Hermione favored glanced at Draco absent-mindedly. "The usual?"

"The usual," Draco confirmed. The affable man adjusted his apron and pointed his wand at a tangle of bright copper pipes, which began to immediately percolate and whistle.

Draco glanced around, and picked up a copy of the afternoon edition of the Daily Prophet, curious to see if Skeeter had managed to piece enough together about the explosion for a brief story, and if so, how inaccurate it had been.

Instead, his eyes were assaulted with a photograph of Weasley, on top of the bar, holding a ring down to a flustered Granger, who took his hand and tripped several times on her robes as he pulled her up onto the bar with him for a kiss. He dragged his focus up to the headline.

RON WEASLEY PROPOSES!

 _(she says yes!)_

Draco ignored any and all text with the story, completely forgot to check for mentions of the Little Flagley incident. He watched the picture repeat its motions again and again, hypnotized at the scene.

"Mr. Malfoy?" The barista held the cups of coffee out to him.

His trance broken, Draco threw the paper onto the counter. "This too."

"Ah," the barista nodded. "A remembrance of the day, yes? Please pass my congratulations along to Ms. Granger. High time that rascal settled down and asked for her hand."

"Yes," Draco said absently, passing the money along. "I will."

He returned to the MLE department in a kind of daze, the coffees floating before him, the newspaper tucked under his arm. When a memo zoomed a few centimeters from his face, he blinked and stopped.

Draco unfolded the paper once more, watching the picture go through its paces. He studied it intently, as if it would offer something different, some detail that he'd missed and could cling to. With a quick look to see if anyone was watching, he crumpled the paper to bits and binned it, wishing for a nearby fire.

"It's a crush," he muttered to himself. "Just a crush. You knew nothing more could come out of it. You _knew_ , so knock it off."

* * *

After hastily signing their forms (including a request to Oddsbodds to have the cauldron analysis moved up) and swallowing their respective lunches, Draco and Hermione spread out their evidence across the lab. Thiessen's body had been moved to the St. Mungo's morgue for Oddsbodds to examine. He would determine how she had died. The MLE was investigating Thiessen's wards to see if they had been breached within the last month. They would determine if anyone had entered the home who shouldn't have been. An MLE officer had been dispatched to St. Mungo's to gently interview Nigel Thiessen about what had happened that morning. He would determine if Nigel had seen anything amiss.

Draco and Hermione would examine the evidence left behind at the scene. Their task was to determine what had set off the blast, and why it had been there. It all clicked together a little more smoothly nowadays, at least in Draco's opinion. Using the picture he'd found and analyzing the debris left behind, he tried to determine what ingredients Thiessen had set out when she'd been working on her potions. Beside him, Hermione tried to establish a timeline for what potions were started when, what would still have been brewing when the explosion happened, and what residue still might have been in cauldrons that she used.

They chatted lightly about the scene, constructing potential scenarios. Draco got the feeling Hermione wanted to talk about her engagement, but redirected the conversation each time she tried.

An hour or so into the analysis, Draco felt a prickle on the back of his neck, an eerie sensation that he was being watched. He turned, only to see Auror Bibulus turning away from the window and walking towards the Auror Department.

"Bibulus was watching us," he murmured to Hermione, over the shuffling of her papers.

"What?" She dropped the papers, eyes wide, tossing her braid over a shoulder. "When?"

"Just now," Draco replied, still peering out the window.

"It strikes me as very odd that Bibulus would be there this morning in the first place," Hermione said, coming to stand beside him. "I mean, chances are this isn't something insidious or intentional. Aurors generally aren't summoned for things like potions accidents. Do you think he _knew_ her?"

"Do you mean…were they lovers?" Draco asked, looking at her in surprise.

Hermione blushed suddenly. "Well…maybe. But you know, if they were, he should really come forward."

"Ferguson said there wasn't a father in the picture…you think?" Draco felt a different sort of prickle race along his spine. "That's motive, perhaps…if…"

"It's a big if," Hermione said sharply. "We probably shouldn't speculate too much on that score."

Draco smirked. "My dear Granger, we are paid to speculate…so long as we can back it up with evidence."

"Even so…" Hermione looked uneasy. "Do you think we should head back to the house? I mean, we have everything from the lab. What if there's something in her house? Pictures…"

"All right," Draco agreed. "But if we do that, let's make sure someone's watching the evidence we've got here, or set a ward on it…or something."

Hermione sat down at once, hands slapped on her thighs. "We're jumping to way too many conclusions here. Two minutes ago, his presence at the crime scene was unusual. Now we're suspicious of…what, exactly?"

Draco glared at her, irritated by her lack of initiative. "You might be distracted by the thought of becoming Mrs. Weasel, but don't second-guess yourself. The presence of an Auror at our scene is a major anomaly, Hermione. One looking over our shoulder is doubly strange."

Hermione returned his glare with interest, and Draco couldn't help but notice that she hadn't returned her engagement ring to her finger. "Fine. Let's go look for something – not that we know what we're looking for, but let's go looking. Do me one favor, though, and I'll take it in place of a wedding gift."

"Yeah? What's that?" he returned roughly, getting impatient with her continual reluctance.

Hermione's anger faded from her face, and was replaced with something like hurt. Draco felt his insides curl up in a bit of shame. "Stop insulting Ron, please. I mean, at least, just in my presence. I _am_ getting married to him."

The teenager he had been would have sneered and replied that he would insult whomever he liked. The man who realized that he valued this woman's friendship paused, and subsided.

"I can do that," he said softly. "Sorry."

"Thank you," she replied, and with a brisk mood change, stood up. "Right. Let's secure this batch of evidence and return to the scene."

"We'll look for anything unusual, any past associations or family members," Draco finished, setting a ward about the evidence with a flick of his wand. "Should we leave a note for Oddsbodds?"

"Already done," Hermione said, flicking her wand at a parchment memo, watching as it folded itself into an airplane and zoomed off the table. "Shall we?"

* * *

Now that they knew their destination, Draco and Hermione apparated outside the Thiessen house with a minimum of fuss. The crowd that had been there in the morning had mostly died down, though two MLE officers remained stationed outside the house, nodding them through.

Since his focus was no longer on the site of the explosion, Draco glanced around at the house. At the end of the street, shrouded by several squat, thick pines, the house had a sheltered feel to it. Small and spare, it was neatly kept. He supposed that Thiessen had only brought in enough money through her potions operation in the little town for a modest living for herself and her son.

If Nigel's father was alive, had he refused to provide support for the boy? Was he abusive, and Thiessen had had to take her son and go into hiding?

Hermione's gentle tug on his sleeve brought him back into the present. He opened the door for her, enjoying the blast of heat on his face, watching Hermione rub warmth back into her slender fingers, depositing their cloaks in a bag on the floor. Someone had charmed a new fire in the grate, filling the house with heat. Draco almost wished that they had let it go cold – this felt like an intrusion, rather than an investigation.

"Where would you keep photo albums?" he murmured to Hermione, who seemed to have gone as awkward as he, staring around the house as if she expected someone to angrily confront her.

"Bookshelf. Um, coffee table. Under the bed?" she shrugged. "Is it just photo albums that we're looking for?"

"Anything that looks out of place, I suppose," Draco replied. "Anything that establishes the major people in Thiessen's life."

"Which do you want to take?" she asked, still looking uncomfortable as she examined a picture of Thiessen holding an infant Nigel.

"The lady's choice," he replied, looking at her profile. "I'll take whatever you don't want."

"Nah," Hermione said, her mood changing suddenly. "It's silly to split up. If I find something, I'll want your opinion."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he grinned at her.

One side of her face lifted up in a smile. "Bedroom, then."

"Oh, by all means, lead on," he replied, teasing broadly.

She blushed hard and punched him lightly on the shoulder for his innuendo. "That's…get to work, Draco."

"I'm not hearing a no."

This time, he got a Stinging Hex to his rear. "Bloody hell, woman!"

"Move it, Malfoy," she said, giving him a saucy look from under her lashes. "You were the one so eager to get back here."

She had a point, and they recast their Impervius charms on their hands before heading down a hallway, ostensibly in the direction of any bedrooms. They passed a little kitchen stuck in preparations – Draco could see a small pile of sliced tomatoes and a pair of paring knives hovering in the air, quivering almost anxiously. After taking a few pictures, Hermione pointed her wand at the knives, letting them rest on the carving board. Beside them, Draco could see all the necessary ingredients for a modest fry-up.

"Probably my Muggle upbringing, but I don't like the idea of floating knives," she muttered. "So she's getting breakfast ready for Nigel this morning, goes to check on her potions, perhaps adds something, and we have our explosion. Some of the most recent potions in her order book needed at least a few days to brew."

Draco's attention had already wandered. "This way," he called over his shoulder. "There's Nigel's room…and there's Thiessen's."

Draco pushed open the door, and the scent of cinnamon hit them from the darkened bedroom. "Lumos," he muttered.

There wasn't much to the room – a small bed with a thick blue coverlet, a press filled with clothes, a closet with robes. Draco peered at a large box on the closet shelf, while Hermione ducked under the bed.

"Draco! Bring whatever you find down here. I think I've got something." Hermione's voice was muffled, and he looked back to see her wiggling out from under the bed on her belly, dragging something large out.

Shrugging, Draco lifted the box to the ground, folding his legs as he sat beside Hermione on the carpet. Their knees brushed briefly, and his heart gave a funny little jolt. To cover up any expression he might have made, he busied himself with the box, pawing through a pile of gauzy scarves and woolen mittens.

"Look at this," Hermione pushed one of the flimsy photo albums into his hands. "See what's missing?"

Draco paged with her, through dozens of photos in which Thiessen smiled brightly up at the camera. Nigel took more part in it the more he matured, from a wiggling pink infant in his mother's arms, to a brightly-smiling six-year-old waving energetically from the photo.

"No," he said, several minutes later, still staring at Nigel's cheerful face. "What's missing?"

"Naomi Thiessen has no photos from any time before Nigel was born," Hermione said, as if it was obvious. "No pictures of her when she was pregnant, no pictures of her with friends or family. Nothing from when she was a little girl, nothing from when she was in school."

Draco flipped the pages this way and that. "No…" he said slowly. "Maybe these are just the ones she keeps here? Maybe her family has the other pictures?"

"Hmmm…" Hermione said, neither agreement or disagreement in her voice. She paused. "There was this, too." She pushed an October copy of the Daily Prophet into his hands.

At first, Draco didn't see why Thiessen would have deemed this issue important enough to keep on hand. Above the fold, there were stories on the rededication of a wing in St. Mungo's, and an excerpt from Rita Skeeter's new book on Severus Snape – something that he and Hermione both had viciously condemned together and Butterfield now kept on prominent display.

Below the fold, however, circled in red, there was a seasonal, stand-alone photograph of parents taking children in Diagon Alley to carve their jack o'lanterns. Draco studied the photograph. They weren't even prominent, but in the background, unmistakably, were Naomi and Nigel Thiessen, scooping out the inside of a pumpkin together.

"Memento, I guess," he said, handing it back.

"I guess," Hermione said, continuing to stare at the photo, before tucking it with the albums into an evidence bag.

Draco continued to rifle through the box in the closet. "Nothing here but scarves and purses…wait…"

His hand slipped into the suddenly enormous cloth purse. "Undetectable Extension Charm," he murmured, questing this way and that. "Here…" He prized out a wooden lockbox with both hands and pointed his wand at the lock. " _Alohomora_!"

The box flew open with a click, and Draco felt around its open, empty confines. "Nothing…wait." His fingers slipped around the edge of the purple satin lining, feeling the weight of Hermione's interested stare. He traced his wand around the edge of the box. " _Cumulusiosa_!" Immediately, the satin lining rose up, revealing itself as a false bottom.

"Oh no…" he breathed.

Gleaming up at them, the only thing in the large false bottom was a small golden pin, in the exact shape of the mark charred into his left arm.


	3. Chapter 3

They searched the house from top to bottom after that discovery. Nothing else, however, looked suspicious. Nothing else pointed to whatever Naomi Thiessen had been doing prior to her son's birth. No birth certificates, records of Thiessen's schooling or past employment – only a Ministry certification for Thiessen to brew and sell potions in the United Kingdom, with nothing on it to indicate where she'd gotten the knowledge for such certification.

"Do you suppose this is what he's been prowling around about?" he murmured, as they gathered what evidence they had in the lab. "I never heard her name back in…you know, but they might not have mentioned every operative around me."

Hermione looked edgy every time she saw the pin, but patted his arm reassuringly. He warmed at the contact.

"Anytime someone who has lived under suspicion dies, there's likely to be suspicion about how they died," Hermione said, but her words sounded hollow. "It doesn't mean she didn't accidentally mix ingredients. She could be a secret Death Eater and make a mistake with the potion, or maybe she was related to one, and made a mistake with the potion."

"Right. Well, if I die young, I don't want you doing the inquiry."

"I just don't want us automatically assuming that this is a murder," Hermione said calmly. "If it wasn't for _him_ , we wouldn't think this suspicious at all."

"And now we've found a whole host of information that puts some question on this," Draco continued doggedly. "Let's take this to Oddsbodds, see what he thinks. This pin is going to create questions no matter what, and the Aurors will get involved, regardless."

"Agreed," Hermione said, filling out the last of the evidence entry forms. She paused, her Imperviused hands hovering over a pile of rubble from the explosion. "What's this?" She indicated a red disk on a string.

"We can figure it out later," Draco said impatiently. "Move it, Miss-Bride-to-Be."

They hefted the boxes in question down the hallway, Draco putting a protective hand over the most damning piece of evidence. Their progress was slow, since news of Hermione's engagement had percolated through the department, and she was nodding in all directions and smiling thanks at their shouted congratulations. Draco simply scowled and walked faster, forcing Hermione to run to catch up.

Finally, they were knocking tentatively on their boss's door.

" _If you're not an Investigator, sod off!_ " came the shout.

"Sir, it's just Draco and myself," Hermione called back.

"Oh. Come in, then!" Oddsbodds shouted.

The moment they cleared the door, the little man flicked his wand at it to close with a resounding _bang_. " _Muffliato_!" Oddsbodds cried. "Sorry about that. That Skeeter woman won't leave off my office door looking for details about Thiessen – knows just how to charm her way past Reception."

"Can we get her for trespassing?" Hermione piped up. "I'd love to see her escorted off the premises."

"Unfortunately, no," Oddsbodds replied, slapping a few manila folders out of his inbox. "The receptionist let her in, so legally, we wouldn't have a case. All we can do is keep hauling her back every time a new receptionist falls for her tricks." He sighed deeply, folding his hands onto his desk. "My _vunderkinds_ , have you anything to report?"

Hermione glanced at Draco, who widened his eyes in a _you_ _go_ _first_ gesture. She rolled her eyes and began.

"Malfoy and I went to the Thiessen house this morning, and Officer Ferguson led us in," Hermione began, automatically standing a bit straighter and lifting her chin, Draco noted with amusement. "She mentioned that Auror Bibulus had been with her on the case and had investigated the scene with her at first. We thought that was odd, but investigated Thiessen's potions lab. We've recovered a list of the potions she was set to brew prior to the explosion, the cauldron that likely contained the volatile mixture, and the list of all potions she's brewed in the past few months. We're still working on sorting through all of the evidence, but Malfoy noticed Bibulus watching us in the lab."

She nodded at Draco, who took his cue. "We thought this was very odd, to have an Auror take such interest in what is, nine times out of ten, an accident, so we went back to the Thiessen house. We wanted to determine if there was a reason for Bibulus to take special notice of Naomi Thiessen."

He pointed to the photo albums floating before Hermione. "We could find no pictures in the house from a point in time before her son was born, nor anything about her life up to that point, any relatives, schooling…nothing. It's as if she doesn't exist before that point. Nor could we turn up any information about the identity of Nigel's father."

"What we did find," he continued, holding out the evidence bag with the Dark Mark pin, "is this, in the false bottom of a hidden lock box."

He was gratified by the widening of Oddsbodds' eyes. The older man exhaled a long sigh.

"I saw him out of the corner of my eye through the window at St. Mungo's," Oddsbodds admitted slowly. "I wouldn't be surprised if he'd paid a visit to check up on the son as well."

Draco exchanged a bewildered glance with Hermione. They'd expected not to be taken seriously – to have their superior endorse and back up their suspicions was unnerving.

"Did you come to any conclusions about the cause of death, sir?" Hermione asked, avoiding the direct question.

"I'm still waiting on analysis of her tissues," Oddsbodds replied. "From my examination and the Healer's, however, the preliminary conclusion is death by blunt force trauma and major blood loss. About what we expected, I believe, and the large loss of blood would seem to indicate that she wasn't already dead at the time of the explosion."

"So we're probably not looking at the explosion as a cover-up," Hermione said, finishing the train of thought. "It could still be an accident."

"Or something explosive was covertly put into her cauldron," Draco continued. "It would need to be someone that was invited into the house, or at least broke through the wards."

"Her son might know," Oddsbodds mused, tapping his wand against his palm, idly generating sparks. "Or a portrait...did you happen to notice any in the potions workroom?"

"No," said Hermione. "But we just did a preliminary sweep – it's possible we overlooked a portrait somewhere else in the house."

Draco narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Hermione was getting them another chance to look over the house, potentially even to listen in on the interviews.

Oddsbodds nodded, thoughtfully. "The boy should be in St. Mungo's still. You'll want to collect his clothes and examine him for evidence, now that his injuries should have been taken care of. They may be interviewing him at the same time, get it all over with at once." He looked over at Draco, a smile curving across his lips. "You are exceptionally good with young children, so I've heard."

Feeling his cheeks heat up, Draco glanced over at his partner. "Someone's been talking out of turn."

" _Someone_ can't take a compliment," she returned. "On to St. Mungo's, then."

"Sir, can we take Nigel some clothes from his house? Would that be disturbing evidence?" Draco surprised himself with the request, but found his mentor nodding approvingly.

"I can't see how it would," Oddsbodds said slowly. "Make sure you pull clothes from the bottom of the drawer."

As they left, Draco felt warm breath ghost over the side of his face, and turned to see Hermione standing on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.

"Maybe I was talking out of turn, but clearly I was right."

He tried to disguise the shiver down his backbone by flexing his shoulderblades, and believed he'd been moderately successful.

"He's lost his mum and his home in one day," he replied shortly. "If we can keep something normal, and not have him in some silly pair of hospital pajamas, it's the least we can do."

The look she gave him in return did something alarming to his insides, and Draco had to pinch himself to refocus on Apparating.

* * *

Screaming and sobbing were not unusual sounds at St. Mungo's – only rarely did they produce anything than a shrug from the Healers on duty. However, the concentrated agony of a child's terrified sobs that echoed through the third floor cast a noticeable pall over the witches and wizards hurrying past, their heads lowered and brows wincing in sympathy. Portraits of healers past stood empty, the painted figures having found excuses to be elsewhere in the hospital.

Draco felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up the closer he and Hermione edged to the room. It was all too easy to slip into memories of a few short years ago, when the floor beneath his feet rang with cries of pain and horror. A shadow slipped past them, seeming to slither, and he white-knuckled his wand.

Hermione paused at one of the portraits, speaking softly to the image of a white-haired medieval healer with his arm thrown over a zebra's neck, and a lion in repose at his feet. Draco was too involved with composing himself to hear what Hermione asked, but saw the healer nod and walk out of the portrait frame, followed swiftly by the lion and the zebra.

He quirked an eyebrow, but she shook her head and inclined her chin at the door ahead of them.

The MLE officers standing guard at the end of the hall nodded at them and allowed them to pass. Hermione caught the sleeve of one officer – Abbott, Draco thought – and looked at her questioningly.

"He was quiet until they started asking questions a few minutes ago," the tall witch said quietly. "Not sure what set him off."

"Just a wild guess, might have something to do with seeing his mother die this morning," Draco bit out sharply, irritated by Abbott's obtuseness. She glared at him, and he felt Hermione's elbow in his ribs.

"We're just tired," she said apologetically. "Is there anyone in there with him?"

"Oakleaf went in to do the questioning, and Nurse Pipwell should be in there. If it's quiet, just knock – I'm sure he'll let you in."

"Thanks." Abbott favored Draco with another cool look, before turning her attention to the hallway.

Hermione waited until there was a break in the wailing before she rapped quietly on the door. The door opened a crack, and a round-faced young wizard in Healer's robes looked out at them.

"Investigators Malfoy and Granger," Draco said in a low voice. "We're here to pick up Nigel's clothes."

The young man grimaced. "You're welcome to try," he said despairingly. "Poor lad hasn't stopped crying long enough for us to get two words out of him, let alone a Calming Concoction down his throat."

Hermione frowned, brow furrowed. "What did Oakleaf say that set him off?"

Pipwell shook his head. "Tried to ask him about this morning. But I think he led with telling him about his mother. Don't think the little chap quite believed it until Oakleaf told him. Rookie mistake."

Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance, and pushed forward through the threshold.

The hospital room was obscenely bright, and MLE Officer John Oakleaf stepped forward to great them, chagrin lining his dark face.

"Not sure how he'll react," Oakleaf murmured. "He's calmed down a little. Don't ask him about this morning – I made that mistake."

"Does he know about his mother?" he asked softly.

"I don't know," Oakleaf said, a trifle desperately. "I'm assuming so - there's blood on his shirt, so he probably saw the ..." he broke off, with a sideways glance at the corner of the room.

Draco looked past him to the chair in the corner, from whence issued a long sniff. The tiny figure of Nigel Thiessen lay curled in a ball, arms folded around his legs, the top of his red forehead sticking up above his knees, dark brown hair matted by tears. Quiet, heartbroken sobs issued from behind the legs, the wailing quieter now.

"Has he eaten at all?" Hermione asked softly. Oakleaf shook his head. "Would you object if I gave him some chocolate biscuits?"

Oakleaf shook his head. "I've got some milk here as well…" He indicated a carafe of the liquid.

Draco watched curiously as Hermione pulled a small paper bag of biscuits from her cloak, and slowly approached the lad from across the room. She knelt next to the chair.

"This light hurts my eyes," she said softly. Nigel's head shot up, and he regarded her from wide, red-rimmed brown eyes. Draco carefully examined the boy's face from across the room, seeing Naomi Thiessen in every feature. They could run a maternity test to see, but Draco didn't see a point – this was clearly Naomi's child.

Hermione's wand flicked, and the lights immediately lowered to a more tolerable level. Eyes still on her, Nigel wiped his nose across his sleeve, then his eyes.

"My name is Nini," she continued, in that same soft voice. "You're Nigel, right?"

The boy's lip quivered. Draco saw his in, and stepped forward to kneel beside his partner. "I'm Draco. We're not going to ask you any questions about today, okay?"

Nigel nodded, taking in the new figure, his shoulders relaxing just a bit.

"We're just going to see if you're hungry, and if you'd like to change out of those wet clothes," Hermione continued easily. "I've got some chocolate biscuits and milk, once you get some different clothes on."

The boy nodded, hesitantly.

"Would you like me or Miss Hermione to help you with your clothes?" Draco asked. Nigel looked between them, then pointed at Draco.

"I can do that," Draco said, fishing a bit of parchment out of his satchel. "First though, let's clean our hands. If you touch your hands to this paper, it should make your hands nice and clean."

With delicate care, he spread the roll of parchment out on the side table beside Nigel. With some prompting, Nigel placed his hands palm-down on the paper.

"Tickles!" he exclaimed, as the parchment glowed green and an outline of Nigel's hands appeared on it.

"That's how it magically cleans your hands," Draco lied easily, rolling up the paper that preserved any residue from Nigel's hands. "Now, we gentlemen will go behind a curtain and get changed. Hermione, if you'd pour the milk?"

With Oakleaf watching from a discreet distance, Draco went behind the curtain to help the boy with his clothes. Shirt, pants, socks, and shoes went into an evidence bag, and he helped Nigel into a brown sweater and pants, helping him tie his shoes.

Draco did his best to keep the clothes untouched, noting the stiff brown splotches on the green sweater that could only be Naomi's blood. He spoke quietly of the snow that had begun to fall outside, and of how much he hated it when he had to walk through snow that melted all over his pant legs. The chatter bored him even as he said it, but it didn't feel right to leave the space so unfilled and silent.

By the time they had emerged from behind the curtain, Hermione was waiting with four glasses of milk, and had laid the biscuits out on a little plate. The adults sipped from their milk glasses, while Nigel began to eat biscuits, slowly, and then with a growing hunger, gulping them and the milk down.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Draco spotted movement in an empty portrait of a sunny field in the room. The white-haired healer Hermione had spoken to earlier peeked out of one side of the frame. He made a little gesture, motioning to Hermione, who nodded and laid a finger beside her nose as if brushing a smut away.

A moment later, the healer appeared at the head of an animal parade. Beyond the zebra and the lion marched a phalanx of peacocks, elephants, tigers, giraffes, and other assorted wild animals. Parrots and toucans filled the sky, dipping and weaving in intricate patterns. The portrait bloomed to life in a cacophony of trumpets, roars, screeches, and calls.

Nigel's eyes fixed on the portrait, not smiling, but certainly interested.

"How lovely," Hermione commented, also watching the show. "I love when the portraits do things like that in my house. Nigel, do you have any portraits at home?"

The boy shook his head mutely, watching the portrait. He continued to munch on a biscuit, draining his glass of milk. Hermione flicked her eyes at Draco, conveying her disappointment that no portrait witness to the events was likely.

"Nigel, do you know Mrs. Spotswood? I think you stay at her house some afternoons?" Oakleaf asked gently. Nigel nodded, his focus on the biscuits. "You'll be staying with her for a little while, okay?"

The boy seemed to instantly crumple inwards. "You don't like Mrs. Spotswood?" Oakleaf questioned.

Nigel shrugged his shoulders. Draco grimaced at Oakleaf's idiocy.

"I believe she's waiting downstairs to take you to her house," Oakleaf said. "Should we get your coat on?"

Draco removed the little winter coat from his satchel, helping the boy navigate the buttons. Hermione found a little knitted cap from her own satchel and placed it upon Nigel's head.

"Oh, we forgot mittens!" she exclaimed. "Nigel, are there any in your pockets?"

The boy stuffed his hands in his pockets, then pulled them out to show the adults a little red disk on a string. "No mittens."

Draco stared at the object, its appearance niggling in his brain. Evidently, Hermione had the same thought, for she knitted her brow while staring at it.

"What is that?" he asked.

Nigel looked at the disk. "Good luck."

"Was it a gift?" Hermione asked carefully.

Nigel twirled the disk in one hand. "The man gave it to me."

Draco and Hermione exchanged swift glances. "What man is that?"

Nigel shrugged. "He said it was good luck. He said he gave one to Mummy for a potion." Instantly, tears welled up in his eyes, and he turned swiftly to Draco, burying his little face in Draco's pants leg.

Draco pulled his own gloves out of his satchel, and charmed them down to Nigel's size. "Nigel, I'll make you a deal. If you let me hold on to your good luck for a little while, you can hold onto my mittens."

The boy looked at him skeptically.

"They're very special mittens," Draco continued. "My girlfriend made them for me, and she'll be very angry if she thinks I've lost them. I'm trusting you now, mate. Can you hold onto these for me, keep them safe?"

Nigel nodded.

"Alright, then." Draco dropped the little object into an evidence bag while Hermione helped Nigel with his mittens. "I'll see you in a few days, Nigel. Keep it safe for me!"

Nigel nodded, and turned to follow Oakleaf out the door.

Hermione watched for a moment, then turned to him. "What do you think?"

"Could be something, could be nothing," he replied. "A good luck charm? A toy, maybe?"

"Maybe," Hermione said, then frowned at him, hands on her hips. "What's this about a _girlfriend_?"

"What?"

Hermione tossed her braid across her shoulder with an irritable little flip. "You said your girlfriend knitted you those mittens. Who is she and why haven't I heard of her?"

There was an indefinable tingling in his fingertips, and Draco thought he might have accidentally touched the parchment intended for Nigel's hands.

"Oh…no. No girlfriend. Just thought it would make them sound more valuable than the two Knuts I paid for them."

"Hmph." Draco looked at her curiously, the beginnings of a smile curving his lips.

They began to walk out together, striding down the halls to the Apparition point.

"You know, I can take this back to the office, if you want to go home. We're already an hour into overtime, and you've got a _fiancee_ to go home to now…"

"Nah," Hermione said, "Besides, I've got a favor to ask of you. A very Slytherin one."

"Why yes, I _will_ plan Weasley's bachelor party. Complete with him ending locked up in an obscure Russian prison." Draco hoped he didn't sound as sincere as he was.

"What?"

"Oh, I'll think of the charges later. Something involving public nudity."

Hermione flushed a deep crimson. " _Arse!_ "

"Oh, it would have to be more than that to land him in prison."

She punched his arm again, her manner a little less friendly.

"I'm going to have a permanent bruise there, Hermione," he grumbled, rubbing the spot in mock hurt. "And that doesn't count - I'm not making fun of him, I'm just planning future problems for him."

"Wimp. But no, I've got a question for your Slytherin mind to puzzle out. I need someone who thinks strategically, in the long-term of things."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"Where...where do you see this job going? In the long-term, I mean."

He looked at her in surprise, seeing her cheeks flush again. "I think that would depend entirely on you. I could see you leading up this department, if that's what you really want to do." She nodded, biting her bottom lip. "What brought this on?"

She pursed her lips into a frown. By now he knew her well enough to realize that this was something that she'd kept deep on the inside.

"I kind of got into this department with the thought it was something that I could do that would track me into the Ministry," she murmured, avoiding his eyes, attempting to stare down a portrait of a Healer with three eyes. "I'm starting to see that might not be the case."

Draco's stomach lurched, despite himself. "What brought this on?"

She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, giving him another look at her winking engagement ring. Draco felt his lips moving before he could give the response proper thought.

"Which department are you going to whip into shape next?"

"Excuse me?" She stopped in her tracks, ignoring the clouds of blue mist issuing from a nearby patient room.

"You're talking to someone whose family made a career of making themselves powerful in the Ministry," Draco continued, feeling as though he might as well finish it. He swiped uselessly at the cloud with a fold of his robes, and by mutual agreement, they moved aside, farther down the hallway. "You've got the brains and the drive, along with the fame. You could have gone straight into working for the Wizengamot, if you really wanted. I think the Investigations Department is just the first of a long list that you're going to work on improving."

"Who says I want that?" Hands on her hips, chin jutting into the air, Hermione faced him down. "

"You do," Draco replied equably. "Every morning you tell me about some Prophet story that shows an abuse of power, or lament some law that needs to be changed. You do excellent work here – work that keeps you close to Potter and the Wea- to Weasley. But I don't think it's where you're going to be happiest."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

A portrait of a Healer, circa-1590 with a large ruff quivering around his neck, chose that moment to pipe up, "I always recommend a regimen of Cheering Charms for brides-to-be! Keeps their feet toasty warm and prevents them from running away."

It was one of the more awkward silences Draco could remember enduring.

"Oh, shut up," Hermione snapped at the portrait. Offended, it snapped its ruff and stalked out of the frame.

"What brought this on?" Draco said, attempting to bridge the silence.

Hermione shuffled a foot, then indicated that they should keep walking.

"The Wizengamot is looking for someone who can start work on reviewing old laws. Shacklebolt is starting to review a lot of the legality on the books, and a lot of it is kind of biased against Muggleborns," The words fell out of her in a rush, like water over a dam, and Draco realized that she'd been holding this information back for a while. "It's spec work at first, but then maybe in a year or so…it's going to mean a lot of my weekends and some evenings"

"Do it."

"What?" It was rare that he was able to startle Hermione, and he usually reveled in the ability. A Healer in lime green robes irritably swiveled around the two of them standing there in the hallway, and Hermione didn't even notice. But Draco saw his chance, and took it.

"Like I said, you've got the drive and the know-how, and you've got someone in high places who's sympathetic to your aims. If it's what you want to do, then do it." He smiled then, the smile of a Slytherin. "It's not a crime to see the advantage and take it. Everyone's going to benefit from you being there."

Hermione quirked her mouth in an approximation of disagreement. "Not everyone. And it kind of makes my schedule erratic, and it doesn't pay…"

"Does it lead to where you want?"

She gave him a tremulous smile. "I think so, yes."

The hesitation was clouding her eyes. Draco knew when to press his advantage, and this was not his moment. He would bet every scant coin to his name, however, that the Weasel King was behind this unlikely reluctance. She had waited years for him to grow up, he reflected. Perhaps the habit was too ingrained.

Perhaps this was an observation he should keep to himself.

"Look, you're better off talking to Potter or Longbottom or maybe Oddsbodds. I'm probably not the person to ask about this – you see, I'm a little biased and selfish." She threw him a questioning look, stopping in her tracks, heedless of the Healer who grunted in irritation and slipped around them. "What I mean is, I don't want you to leave. I understand if you do, but I'm going to miss seeing you every day. So stop faffing about and do it."

It came out a little more fervently than he had intended, and he felt himself start to go pink under Hermione's steady gaze. Then, to his confusion, she began to laugh brightly, clapping him on the arm.

"Laugh," she commanded in a low voice, grinning at him. "Bibulus is watching us."

Immediately, his face split in a grin that didn't feel exactly sincere. "I won't look," he said, showing a great deal of his teeth, and hoping Bibulus couldn't read lips. "Is he following us, or just watching?"

"Just watching, I think," Hermione smiled up at him, spinning around to wrap a companionable arm around his waist and steer him in the direction of the Apparition Point. Draco was torn between attempting to use each reflective surface to get a look at Bibulus – and enjoying the pressure of the warm arm snugged against his waist.

The choice was taken from him when he and Hermione had to split apart to dodge a wizard with tentacles sprouting from his ears. Draco took the opportunity to spin around on his heel, ostensibly to stare in bemusement at the wizard now being slapped across the face by his own tentacles.

Bibulus was not there.

"I don't think he's following," he murmured in Hermione's ear, on the excuse of batting away some non-existent fuzz on her shoulder, enjoying the little flush in her skin.

"You don't have to be subtle anymore if he's not watching," she replied, rolling her eyes.

His stomach dropped just an inch or so, then he managed to recover as he leant back. "Do they have Aurors watching the Spotswood house?"

Hermione frowned, knitting her brow. "I doubt it. Do you think I should mention it to Harry? He could put someone on the case, keep it quiet."

His face must have shown his thoughts, because she made a moue of displeasure. "He'll be discreet. Bibulus is part of the MLE, so we can't just announce it to all and sundry."

"Fine." They continued walking. "We need to let Oddsbodds know, though. The more people who are aware of this, the more people we have watching Bibulus."

Hermione nodded her agreement. "Can I take you up on your earlier offer? Do you mind taking this evidence back to Headquarters? If I go now, I'll catch Harry over at the Burrow..."

Draco managed to produce a smile that he hoped wasn't too strained. "Celebratory dinner?"

Hermione ducked her head, smiling contentedly. "Something like that."

"Have fun. But Hermione-" he stopped, and the sentence on his tongue died.

"Yes?" She looked at him, sweetly expectant.

"If they partner me with Butterfield after you go, promise me you'll find me a job there. I don't care what it is – just don't leave me behind with that wanker."

She grinned at him, then turned on her heel and Disapparated.

Draco's shoulders slumped the moment she vanished. He closed his eyes briefly, marshalling his thoughts, then concentrated on the MLE Headquarters before Apparating away.


	4. Chapter 4

The moment he unlocked his apartment door and stepped into its shadowy insides, Draco knew he had made a mistake. Most of the time, he didn't mind a few hours of privacy to reorder his thoughts. Tonight, however, no matter how hard he called for light, the emptiness of the place did not disperse.

He threw his case down on the floor and sighed deeply. Hermione kept telling him to get a pet – he wondered if it wouldn't be the worst idea anyone had ever had. But a cat didn't eat with you, an owl didn't cuddle your side on the couch...

Firmly shutting his mind from going any farther down that path, he spelled a fire and tossed a handful of Floo Powder into it, kneeling down and plunging his head into the green flames. "Tonks Cottage!"

A dizzying moment later, his vision adjusted to the sight of Teddy on the hearth rug, playing with his dragon figurines.

"Hello, Teddy," he said, smiling at the boy.

Teddy leapt up, hair like emeralds, his windmilling hands full of Common Welsh Greens. "Nana! Draco in da Foo!"

Andromeda came into his vision a moment later, dusting floury hands on her apron. "Hello, Draco," she smiled, kneeling down next to Teddy on the rug. She peered at him closely, her face rearranging into lines of concern. "Trade you dinner for a story, if you come on through."

It was one of the many reasons he loved his aunt - her ability to see when he was bluffing. "Coming through, then. Watch out, Teddy."

Andromeda drew her grandson aside as Draco completed the Floo journey, brushing the dust off as he landed on the hearth. Teddy immediately jumped forward, latching himself around Draco's calf. "Draco!"

"Teddy!" Draco immediately scooped him up into his arms, watching the emerald green lighten into a wheaten blond. "Handsome lad."

"Dagons fly high wif Draco!" Teddy punched an arm into the air, and Draco saw the Welsh Green in his chubby fist, wings frantically flapping.

"They do at that." With Andromeda's hand flying to her heart, Draco used his wand to lift the boy into a hovering position above his own head, walking in a quickstep around the kitchen, being careful to steer his cousin around the hanging pots and pans. "Let's give Nana a kiss, shall we?"

With that, Teddy was lowered to Andromeda's height, where he gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek as she snatched him out of the air. Draco followed with a corresponding peck on the cheek.

"Should throw you back in the hearth for scaring me like that," she snapped, pinching Draco's earlobe with her unoccupied arm and pulling him down.

"Meda! You know I'd never let him drop!" he scowled, rubbing his ear after she released him.

"Hmph." Andromeda snorted and bent to release a wiggling Teddy back to the ground. "If you want to eat tonight, you'll have to be the one cutting and caramelizing the onions. We're having beef and barley stew."

The rest of the ingredients lay in place on the kitchen counters. Andromeda shoved a few onions in his direction, and he picked them up, leaving her to her pique.

"Want to be a Bubble-Head, Teddy?" he smirked in the boy's direction, casting one upon himself. Teddy looked momentarily wary, then rushed forward. "Yes!"

A clear bubble sprouted over the boy's blond head, protecting him from the smell of the onions.

"Two blond brain-trusts," Andromeda muttered. Teddy began ramming his bubble-head delightedly against the sofa, giggling when he bounced back onto the carpet. "Don't suppose there's time to talk him out of Gryffindor yet?"

Draco frowned, in the act of charming a knife to chop the onions finely. He'd always been under the impression that Andromeda had been a Gryffindor, that the seed of rebellion in her had sprouted early. From the way his father and Bellatrix had spoken of her, it must have been as plain as the scar on Potter's overly large forehead. "Weren't you in Gryffindor?"

Andromeda gave him an odd look, his transgressions momentarily forgotten. "No. Didn't Cissa tell you? Slytherin born and bred."

"But you married-" Draco cut himself off, afraid to cause his aunt pain, and afraid to let her know that his mother had almost never spoken of her sister. But she must have seen the apprehension in his eyes, as she just smiled and shook her head. "You never said! You just let me assume!"

"Assume what? We never talked about it." She paused to glance back at Teddy, now engaged in rolling himself along the wall, using the bubble-head.

"Ted and I weren't the first Gryffindor and Slytherin to walk down the aisle. Not by a _long_ shot. Ambition and bravery are formidable when paired together." She quirked her lips. "The only reason _ours_ caused some scandal was that I was from the Twenty-Eight."

"Huh." The chopping finished, Draco levitated the onions into a pot with butter browning at the bottom. Andromeda insisted on him stirring the onions the Muggle way, as they tended to burn with a charmed spoon. "Never knew that."

"Speaking of marriages, I hear your friend Hermione is promising herself to that Weasley boy. Quite the picture in this morning's Prophet."

Draco didn't dare look at his aunt, but concentrated on the delicious smell of the caramelizing onions in the pan, his bubble-head having dissipated.

"She certainly had quite a ring on her hand this morning," he offered up, rather lamely, watching the butter bubble around his wooden spoon.

"She's not married until she makes it down the aisle," Andromeda said firmly, seizing his chin in her hand and forcibly turning his head to hers. His heart gave a jolt at her words. "Even then, it's not sealed forever. Don't be such an idiot."

He stirred the onions, taking careful and considered notice of their color, smell, and the heat involved, before he trusted himself to speak. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hippogriff dung." This sharp rejoinder was muffled, though the little ears Meda avoided were paying them absolutely no attention.

Draco pressed his lips together, avoiding her gaze, looking over to watch Teddy bouncing his bubble head against the sofa and squealing with delight. "Three things, Meda. One, it's just a stupid crush. Two, I work with her, and it's against the rules. And three, if you don't let go of my chin, these onions are going to burn."

"Mmm. Well, we wouldn't want that." Andromeda let go of his chin and flicked her wand at Teddy. Instantly, the bubble grew to encircle his little body, and the toddler squealed in delight as he bounced about the living room. Andromeda set a ward to keep him out of the kitchen, then returned to orchestrating the dicing of carrots and celery.

The kitchen was silent for another minute, save for the sizzling butter and the squeals of Teddy in the other room. Draco heaved a sigh and caved. "Fine."

Andromeda smirked at him. "Didn't take you long. Thought you'd hold out at least until pudding."

"It's been a rough day. And how the hell did you figure it out? Legilimens?"

" _Language_. There are little ears about. Are the onions ready?" She smirked, clearly enjoying making him wait. Draco wondered briefly how he'd missed the true signs of a Slytherin in his aunt.

"Just about. Answer the question."

Andromeda levitated the bits of beef into the pan, sniffing appreciatively at the warm scent of cooking meat and onions. "At what I'm getting out of you, can skip telling me any interesting stories about today. And to answer your question, it wasn't hard. Who do you talk about every time you come here?"

"My job. My boss. Zabini-" She snatched the spoon from his hand, obviously unsatisfied by his efforts at stirring.

" _You_ talk about _Hermione_ ," she continued for him, stirring the beef with more energy. "Hermione this, Hermione that, Hermione thinks this, Hermione wouldn't do that. Great Merlin, you sound like Dora after she fell for Remus."

"Ninny this!" Teddy's voice broke in, giggling as he bounced from couch to coffee table. "Ninny that!"

Draco glared at his aunt. "What were you saying about little ears?"

"What I was trying to say is that it's not a bad thing," she continued doggedly. "Everybody remembers that the Black family disowned me after I moved in with Ted. Everybody thinks that _he_ pursued _me_. No one realized that I had to make sure that he was single first."

As Andromeda leaned over the pan, a sly smile curving her lips, he saw her suddenly as she'd been at seventeen, confident in her ambition to have the one thing she prized over everything else.

"You didn't kill-"

"Goodness, no. That was Bella's style, not mine. I just had to get him alone for five minutes, which I must say, was not easy with his cow of a girlfriend at the time."

With a bemused smile, Draco lifted Teddy's bubble and gently bounced him across the living room rug. "Against my better judgment, how did you manage that?"

Andromeda smiled in a reminiscent fashion, pouring in the beef broth. "Cascara oil in her pudding at dinner. Don't think she left the loo for three days. And then Ted was free to begin to pursue me in the interim."

Draco felt his respect for his aunt grow threefold in that moment – along with his caution. "How very Slytherin of you."

Andromeda shrugged a shoulder, continuing to stir. "All's fair in love and war."

There – he'd found the crack in her argument. "But you loved Uncle Ted," Draco said, continuing to bounce his cousin across the floor, to Teddy's delight. "I don't love Hermione." The words fell against his lips like sharp rocks as he uttered them.

His aunt frowned at that, knitting her brow. "Don't you?"

Draco snorted. "I think I'd know," he sneered. "Shouldn't I be walking around with my heart thumping out of my chest, or some rot?"

Andromeda made a sound of disbelief. "I'd think you would, too, but as clever as you are about most things, you seem profoundly dim-witted about others."

He shot her a filthy look, and she simply smirked. "Go ahead," she continued. "Pretend it's just a crush. Pretend your heart doesn't skip a beat when she enters a room. I'll start laughing when you _pretend_ you don't need that vial of cascara oil in my potions room."

Draco saw himself a moment later, cozy with Hermione at the pub after work, Weasley too ill to escort her home afterwards. Saw his hand linger warmly on the small of her back, saw her hand flirting with his fringe, twisting and fluffing it with his fingers. Saw him take a chance and take her in his arms, strong and sure, saw her arms twine about his neck and her lips press to his as the rest of the pub fell away.

Saw her press her hands against his chest, pushing him ever so gently away, creating a gulf of pain between them, saw the unbearable kindness as she rejected him, reminding him of her engagement, of the fact that she only saw him as a friend.

The feeling of something repeatedly ramming his knee broke his reverie, and Draco looked down to see Teddy furiously trying to hug him, only to be bounced back by the bubble, making childish sounds of frustration. Draco ended the charm with a word, and Teddy was on him in an instant.

"Are you sad?" he asked, looking up at his older cousin. Draco stooped to his level.

"I'm a little sad. I'm getting over a crush. I could use a hug."

Teddy immediately leapt into a bear hug, squeezing Draco about his neck. "What's a crush?"

"You get them when you get my age," Draco said, looking in bewilderment at Andromeda, who smirked. "But they don't hurt for long and you get over them soon." This last part was said with narrowed eyes at his aunt.

"Hugs help wif hurts," Teddy said, nodding and hugging him.

A warm pair of adult arms encircled both of them as his aunt joined the hug as well. "Yes, they do."

"Nana hugs my boo-boos away."

Draco closed his eyes for a minute, then opened them, looked straight at Meda, and raised an amused eyebrow. "All this hugging? Bet you ten galleons on Hufflepuff."

She pecked his cheek. "I can live with that. And Draco, I'm not telling you to run to her house and sweep her off her feet. You'll get your heart and your nose broken. I'm just saying…be patient. Wait till she's single, and wait till her heart's had some time to heal. Then go be a Slytherin."

"Hmmm." Draco decided that a noncommittal response was as good as any. "What are you doing tomorrow, Teddy?"

The little boy wiggled to be let down, and Draco willingly followed him to the kitchen, helping him into his Hovering Seat. Teddy grabbed a sharp biscuit cutter in the shape of a garden gnome and thrust it at his cousin. "Biscuits!"

"You're making Christmas biscuits!" Draco exclaimed, interpreting his cousin's enthusiastic waving of the cutter. "Will you make me a few?" He cut off a slice of bread, buttering it the way he knew Teddy liked, and handed it to him. Teddy immediately dropped the cutter at the sight of the distraction, letting Draco palm the sharp object and hand it off to his aunt.

Meda lifted a tablecloth, revealing a collection of flour, sugar, and other sundries that he assumed were involved in the making of biscuits. "We will. You can give a few to _Ninny_."

" _Meda_ ," he said warningly, while smiling winningly at Teddy as he cut himself a slice of bread, appetite flaring at the smell of the bubbling stew.

Andromeda threw up her hands in a gesture of surrender, then began stirring pearled barley into the pot.

"I'll find a distraction," he said, speaking obliquely around little ears.

"Why don't you take up knitting?" his aunt asked impishly. "At least do something productive in the meantime."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Anyone who's been waiting for the romance portion to rev up, buckle your seatbelt...

* * *

Just a crush. Like several he'd had growing up. Done, dusted, and both parties could interact with minimal awkwardness. She'd marry the ginger, join the line of long-suffering Weasley wives, probably pop out more auburn brats than they could afford, sublimate her ambitions for the good of the two wizards whom she'd supported for years.

Draco stared into his coffee cup at breakfast that morning, attempting to talk himself through all the appropriate interactions that would cure him of this affliction. He could joke with her, but he couldn't offer her any more advice about the Weasel. He could be her confidante, but not about certain things.

Idly, he wondered if he should plan an emergency illness for when Hermione set the date. Sparing himself the convention of Weasleys and Gryffindors that were sure to bear witness to the happy event, of course, he'd send a gift just for Hermione, and spend the weekend in hospital with a sympathetic Healer who didn't ask too many questions about a nonexistent illness.

Or perhaps it would be the necessary wrench of his heart that was necessary to getting over this silly crush. He'd done more painful things than watch a friend get married. Perhaps he'd meet someone at a wedding. Wasn't that how people met? Perhaps he'd find someone who didn't look at him and immediately think of the Dark Lord, of the brand on his arm.

Perhaps he'd take up knitting.

While going over a list of potential potion ingredients likely to poison him but not cause serious damage (or raise a suspicious eyebrow), he glanced at the clock and realized he was very nearly late. Cursing, he snatched up his satchel and Apparated into the Ministry.

He'd ignored the evening edition of the Daily Prophet yesterday, but threw a knut at a pimply-faced wizard hawking the rag beside the fountain. True to form, Skeeter had done herself proud.

 _ **Fatherless Child Now Orphaned**_

 _Unwed Witch Dies at Home, Leaves Ministry Without a Clue_

 _Residents of Little Flagley were used to looking at the Thiessen home with a bit of dismay. When Naomi Thiessen moved there with her young son several years ago, eyebrows were raised at the clear lack of a paternal presence in the home._

 _They looked at the Thiessen house with sad eyes yesterday, as Aurors rushed to the scene after reports of the young son, Nigel, ran to a neighbor's house for help. Later that day, Chief Investigator Odo Oddsbodds confirmed that young mother Naomi Thiessen had been found dead in her home. A cause of death has yet to be determined, though onlookers said they had heard "a loud bang" reverberate through the neighborhood that morning._

 _"No father, and no ring," said Mercutio Meridian. "Bold as brass! She kept to herself, though, except for some light babysitting that another lady provided. Best potion-brewer in the district!"_

 _Whether the "best potion-brewer in the district" made a critical error and managed to kill herself in the process has yet to be determined. What is certain, however, is that young Nigel has been left without a parental figure in his life. No father was registered on his certificate of birth, according to the Department of Records._

The article trailed off with a few more paragraphs, nothing substantial. Draco wondered, not for the first time, how Skeeter had managed to stay alive during the war.

He contemplated throwing the paper into the bin, but decided to hang onto it. Aurors would be interviewing some of the neighbors, and it wouldn't hurt to match their interviews with Skeeter's interviews.

As he opened the door into their office, he found Hermione bent over, concentrating on sprinkling something around Butterfield's desk. She snapped upright at the sound of him opening the door, eyes wide, but her body lost its tension when she registered his face.

"What are you up to?" he asked, bemusement clear on his face, internally noting that his heart was beating at about the same pace. Meda clearly didn't know what she was talking about.

"You'll see in a bit," she said evasively. "He's stalling on the analysis, by the way, so whatever happens today, he deserves it, you know. Further delay of an hour, and I can request the evidence be sent to someone competent."

"You'll get no argument from me." He dropped his satchel by the desk, then turned to face her, hand gesturing. "Ladies first, then."

The Observation Game had begun again. This time, Hermione stepped close to him, amusement in her eyes, and a coy smile on her face.

Draco felt his heart begin to palpitate a bit faster as she neared him, then snatched up his hands in her own, drawing them to her lips.

Grown wizards did not shake. They did not tremble or waver, nor anything close to it. Perhaps when startled, a slight tremor would start in their hands. But really, anything short of the Cruciatus was not an excuse.

"You went to Andromeda Tonks' place last night," she said, bringing him out of his nervous contemplation of her eyes. "Your hands smell like onions, so you must have been in the kitchen with her when she was making dinner. I love that smell."

"Almost," he said, regaining his cool and allowing himself to look impressed. "I was caramelizing onions for beef and barley stew."

"You cook, too?" She frowned. "Why hasn't some witch snapped you up by now?"

Abruptly, he pulled his hands away. "One point to you, and I'll thank you to leave my love life out of it."

"All right," she said, smirking, putting her coffee cup down with a _clunk_. "Your turn."

He'd already known what he was going to tell her, but that didn't absolve him of the responsibility of putting on a show. So Draco turned to face her, ducking his head and opening his mouth, like a predator scenting prey.

"Pervert!" Her rolled-up parchment struck him across the face.

"Not _that_ , Hermione," he said, blocking a second blow and raising an eyebrow at him. "I had to check something."

"Oh, _really_?"

"Had to check whether it was perfume or lotion," he replied. "It's lotion. You've changed brands. Before, it was the shea butter and honey. Now it's mint and eucalyptus lotion. It's lotion, too, because it's a lighter scent and not as sharp as what's in massage oils."

"I shudder to think at how you became so familiar with massage oils."

"Quidditch practice. Don't change the subject."

"The Slytherin team had its own masseuse? How am I _not_ supposed to pursue that?"

"Mint and eucalyptus are commonly used in stress-relief lotions," he continued doggedly. "This means you're feeling stressed about something – enough so that you've turned to these silly stopgap measures instead of addressing the real issue."

"An issue that you intend to psychoanalyze me over, I take it."

"No," he said, with an elegant (so he'd been told) shrug of his shoulders. "There are several possibilities, but none that I can say are definitively the cause of your stress."

"Perhaps it's a combination of several. Goodness, you think beginning to plan a wedding might have anything to do with it?"

"Possibly," he conceded. "So you're admitting to stress?"

Hermione sighed. "Fine. Yes. I suppose we're even for today."

"No, I'm actually in the lead." At Hermione's incredulous face, his lip curled and he raised a finger to point at her. "You only figured out the onion thing. I figured out that you changed lotions _and_ that you're feeling stressed. Two points to me."

"I think we just found the source of my stress."

"Yup. I'm better than you. Might want to bring a bottle of that stuff to work."

Hermione sighed. "I might just stop using it completely. Ron got me a bottle of perfume a few months ago that he wants me to wear."

Draco paused as his quill skidded across the parchment. "Don't," he replied. "The lotion isn't going to affect your sense of smell on a scene too greatly, but perfume…"

"I know," Hermione huffed, blowing a few stray hairs from her eyes. "Plus it's this really foul, cloying stuff. But Ron's so insistent…" She broke off, a bit of a blush coloring her cheeks. "Sorry. You probably don't want to hear this."

He didn't, but Draco shrugged his shoulders diffidently, refraining from pointing out where her real stress might be located. "Hang onto it. Has to smell better than some of the scenes we go to."

He must have looked as awkward as he felt, and Hermione opened her mouth to continue apologizing, when Butterfield walked into the office. Draco had never before felt grateful for the other wizard's presence.

"Good morning, Benjamon," Hermione said politely, as the analyst stalked into the shared office.

"Is it? Is it _really_?"

"Pleasant enough, all things being equal," Draco said equably, sitting down at his desk to go through his files. He chanced a side glance at Hermione, to find her watching him from beneath her lashes and smiling faintly. He quirked his lips in a hidden smirk back, then pretended to concetrate on the parchment in front of him

"Where did you hide it?" Butterfield's voice came out in a deadly whisper.

"Hide what?"

"My nameplate!" Butterfield leveled a glare at him worthy of McGonagall. "It was right here when I left last night. If you took it..." he trailed off, unable to voice a threat worthy of such a crime.

"I wouldn't have taken your sodding nameplate," Draco bit out. "Charming it to insult you is much more more my style. Speaking of which, how do you feel about Benjamon Butterfield, Bell End Tosser?"

"That's not terribly creative," Hermione added in his ear. "Or alliterative."

"Haven't woken up properly this morning," he replied casually. "Give me a few moments and a dictionary."

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Hermione feign nonchalance as she studied his desk. "Probably just fell from your desk- hang on just a minute." She stooped and ran an index finger over the carpet along his desk, then pointed her wand at it. "Lumos!"

The tip of her finger glowed bright blue. "Well, that's it, then," she said resignedly. Only Draco caught the little twinkle in her eye.

"That's what?" Butterfield's face was rapidly turning an alarming shade of scarlet.

"Ron told me that the Department of Magical Creature Welfare found an illegally imported cage full of Cornish Pixies yesterday," Hermione said patronizingly. "But someone didn't latch the cage properly, and the little fellows escaped. Causing real havoc on the third floor, apparently."

"What does that have to do with my nameplate?" Butterfield spat at her.

"Pixies love shiny things," Hermione replied patiently. "So I think if you follow this trail of pixie dust, you'll probably find a whole bunch of shiny things at the end of it."

Draco had accepted the fact that he fancied Hermione Granger some time ago. This worried him at first – was it just because she was the only witch in the British Wizarding World who had more than two words to say to him? Was it because he was undeniably lonely, reaching out to grab hold of the nearest sympathetic person? Was it because she was in such close proximity to him for such an extended period of time each day?

He doubted the first – more than often what she said to him was tart and biting, rather than soft and sympathetic. He wondered about the second and chose not to think about it. If it was the third, well then, she wasn't close enough for Draco's liking.

He fancied her, but it was always with the knowledge that she was someone else's girlfriend, that she was his co-worker and thus doubly forbidden. Up to this moment, that knowledge had always been in control, had always tamped down whatever fantasies had cropped up when he stared at her long fingers, at the sway of her curls.

The moment he knew he had fallen in love with Hermione, however, was when she gave him a conspiratorial little wink as Benjamon cursed, spun on the spot, and flew out of the office, using his lighted wand, bouncing off walls, trying to track the trace.

Draco felt his heart contract as if it were being squeezed by an invisible hand. Hermione turned her head from him to watch Benjamon's retreat, and he stared at her profile, transfixed. Phrases bubbled in his brain, a thousand iterations of desperation, of reverence, of joy, of terror – and halted on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to run, flee the weight of her glance, her keen and dangerous mind that could probably look right through him, the power of her regard that could destroy him with a word. He wanted to grab her up, kiss her _slowsoftsweetfasthard_ till they were both breathless, twine on the sheets of his bed till neither could move from delicious exhaustion, make her laugh till she ached, hear her anxieties and hopes, confess his own, shield and be shielded. He wanted her head on his shoulder, his lips in her hair, her hand in his hand. He wanted five minutes alone so that he could figure out what the hell was happening inside his own head.

Something as huge as this couldn't have cropped up so suddenly. He must have loved her before this, must have been aware of some changes, even if he couldn't see the whole. Things as rare and lovely as this didn't fall out of the sky, and were rarely ever dropped in front of him.

Draco could see her through the years, a winsome eleven-year-old looking nervous in her school robes and trying mightily to cover it, a furious young teenager, flying at him in her rage, anger sparking from her eyes. He saw her coming into her own in robes of periwinkle blue, floating in the arms of a Durmstrang giant, saw her heartbroken and proud in the library's flickering torchlight, discussing smuggling potions with Potter. Was it then?

His worst vision of her tore at him – screaming and bleeding on his sitting room floor, rigid with racking pain, and yet, somehow, managing to hold onto an important lie. He saw her framed in the doorway of Dungo's Chemistry, outlined by sunlight, hesitant to step inside with him, saw her look up at him in astonishment while perched on a piece of palaestrum equipment.

Was this it, then? Was this that "love" that Dumbledore had forever been nattering on about? There were no cherubs and flowers about this – there was just her, and how she had tried so hard all her life, fought so valiantly for everyone else, believed so strongly in others, extended kindness even to him, who had treated her with such contempt. She was bossy, true, high-strung and utterly demented at times. She had no fear of lashing out at those who struck at her friends (himself included), but was utterly devoted to defending those she'd taken into her trust. Including him?

He'd reflected before on what it might be like to kiss her (tentatively - waiting for her response, passionately – demanding it), to hold her (securely, in every case – he did not favor loose, unenthusiastic embraces).

Suddenly, he saw a fantasy of the future – Hermione tucked under his arm, her own arm curled about his waist, laughing, Hermione smiling sleepily at him with swollen lips and tangled hair from across his pillow, Hermione, shining with a secret, placing his hand on her abdomen…

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Hermione said, grinning and grinding his fevered train of thought to a halt. "It's reflective pixie dust from the Canary Islands. George got a shipment in this week. I made a trail that goes around the proximity of the Ministry twice, through the Auror offices, across the owlery dung heap, and ends up in the dovecote. I know it's going to delay him further, but really, enough's enough. I'm tired of bowing and scraping just to get the information I need."

Hermione brushed a stray curl from her braid aside, and his gaze caught on the gold band with the ruby chip, winking at him as it caught the light. She was with someone else. She was engaged to _Weasley_. He would never even have the slightest chance with her because she was going to marry the freckle-faced bastard who had fought alongside her in the war. Not him, whom she had fought _against_.

He was in love, and it was hopeless.

His blank look continued as he stared at her, and distantly he realized he needed to make some sort of response.

Hermione, however, seemed to take his lack of a response as disapproval. "Oh, he'll be fine. I made it up there, and I'm not nearly as motivated. I don't prank very often, you know."

"No…" he croaked out dryly, then swallowed painfully past the lump in his throat. "I just…that's really impressive."

She grinned at him and Draco felt his heart give a painful lurch in the confines of his chest. "Don't mention it. Seriously, though, don't mention it. I do have a reputation to maintain."

Draco gave back a crooked smile in return that he felt must look convincing.

"If nothing urgent comes up in the next ten minutes, let's take a coffee break outside the department. Benjamon should be wading into the fountain by then."


	6. Chapter 6

After a coffee break in which Hermione ( _thank Merlin_ ) provided most of the commentary and was distracted by the hopeful search for Butterfield, they began their trek back into the office.

It was also, thankfully, nearly the time at which they could send their evidence to another analyst. Hermione was going over the precautions they should take, walking the evidence down to the next analyst, and going over the details from the day previous. She was contented with short, jerky nods from him

"Harry said that he put Wentworth to watching the Spotswood house last night," Hermione continued, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil in her partner's head. "Nothing happened. We should probably find something to back our theory up if we want them to watch a second night."

Draco glanced in a reflective window as they walked by, registering his own wide eyes and slack-jawed expression, and attempted to school it into something resembling poise.

"Now that we might finally have an analyst willing to put death before petty theft, we might actually have something to back it up with," he replied, testing out his voice, satisfied when it came out steady. "Think we could pull that off again?"

"We?"

"It's not much of a stretch to think that Butterfield's going to be a prat in the future," he reasoned, "and we'll probably have to deal with him again. He won't fall for the same prank twice."

"Prank? That took me a while to come up-" Hermione broke off as they reentered their office.

Brutus Bibulus sat in Draco's chair, fingers steepled, obviously waiting for them.

Instantly, Draco palmed his wand, aiming it at the reedy wizard. A quick movement to his left meant that Hermione was doing the same.

"No need for that," Bibulus grumbled, quite unruffled by their implicit threat. "I'm here to talk, not to threaten."

"That's often what people who threaten say," Hermione hissed, making no move to release her wand.

Bibulus looked offended. Then, with a sigh, he slowly held up his hands, palms out. "Bind them if you wish. But don't petrify me – I won't be much use to you with my mouth shut."

Hermione's stance relaxed somewhat. "We'll keep our wands on you, thanks."

Bibulus looked at her blankly. "Of course. You're investigating the death of Naomi Thiessen. You're suspicious enough to put an Auror outside the Spotswood house last night."

Draco tensed back up. "And apparently we were right to do so, given that _someone_ in this room went looking for him."

"I was going to _guard_ the house," Bibulus said, with the air of someone explaining something to the dimwitted. "But someone beat me to the punch. Had to step fast to keep Potter's plant from noticing me."

" _You_ think Nigel is in danger," Hermione stated, looking at Bibulus dubiously. " _We_ only thought that because you were being so obvious."

"I think…it's a real possibility," said Bibulus. "I owe it to Naomi to see that he stays safe. And I am _not_ obvious," he added, sounding aggrieved.

"We saw you," Draco chimed in. "What's to say that someone like Rita Skeeter won't put the pieces together?"

"Skeeter never comes close to the truth," Bibulus grunted. "She'd see ketchup on your shirt and assume it was blood. A little bit of truth, however, and you two might jump to exactly the wrong conclusion about the right person - such as that I might be responsible for Naomi's death."

Hermione's stance relaxed a fraction. Draco felt himself tense up to compensate.

"You seem quite familiar with Ms. Thiessen," Hermione said flatly. "You appear at her house not long after her death, which otherwise, would likely be deemed an accident. Later, we find you sniffing around her son and watching us in the lab. Start explaining, or we start hexing." Her wand sparked threateningly.

Had she been Slytherin, Hermione would likely have left out the reasons for which they suspected. Draco watched Bibulus's eyes for any triumph - a sign that he'd been watching them in a way that neither suspected.

Either Bibulus was a better card player than Draco, or they'd caught him every time. Draco exhaled softly.

Bibulus extended his hands forward, palms-up, in a gesture of entreaty. "You can sit down. This could take a while."

"I'm fairly good at standing," Draco grated out. "Hermione?"

Hermione's stance didn't change, but out of the corner of her eye he saw her nod sharply.

With an exasperated eye roll, Bibulus exhaled on a bass note and began.

"The Order of the Phoenix had several field agents put into play as soon as the call went out when the Diggory boy died. Mostly, they were witches and wizards of lesser renown, or those not from England, but able to produce or fake a Pureblood or half-blood heritage that would stand up to some scrutiny. The Potters, the Longbottoms, Dumbledore...they were all too public about their stance on the issue of blood. We needed people who could be trusted.

"Once recruited, we began placing them in prime spots to gain information on the Death Eaters. I won't go into detail, for their sakes, but Naomi was one such recruit," he sighed. "There's a picture in my left cloak pocket, if you'd like to see."

Wisely, he did not make a move with his own hands, but allowed Draco forward. Gingerly, Draco fished around in Bibulus's pocket, finding nothing. Suspecting a trick, he looked up, only to see Bibulus's exasperation.

"Not _your_ left, _my_ left."

Certain that his ears were burning, Draco quickly snapped up the photograph from the correct pocket, raising his wand back to Bibulus while handing the photograph to Hermione.

Hermione stared at the photograph for a few moments, before raising her wand half-heartedly and passing the photograph back to Draco.

His eyes flicked down, then narrowed. The small photograph showed a witch and wizard against a brick wall that Draco thought might have been a country house. A slightly younger Naomi Thiessen, hair long and blowing in the breeze, stared intently out of the frame, giving him a slight nod of acknowledgement. Every once in a while, she glanced to her side at a younger Brutus Bibulus, who looked up at Draco without a familiar pale scar snaking down his jaw. The photo of Bibulus blinked every once in a while, flicking a glance to either side, gripping its wand reflexively.

"I was her handler," Bibulus said hollowly. "She was a French recruit who could speak English with just a trace of an accent. Taught by her father at home, so no Beauxbatons records to cross-check. The Death Eaters loved the idea of a pretty young girl raised away from public school influence, and her half-blood status wasn't hard to mask. She was smart, could think on her feet, a wonderful fighter."

"You loved her," Hermione said, looking at the older man intently. Draco flicked a glance at his partner, wondering what limits there might be to her emotional perception.

"Not the way you're thinking," Bibulus responded harshly. "I cared for her. She did much to help us, to provide the Order with information. It was a slow process, but some began to trust her. Naomi was able to smuggle bits and pieces of information out to us. She was key in helping us understand that we needed to guard the Department of Mysteries." He gave Hermione a significant look. "I told her to do anything she had to do to gain their trust. It was worth the future of our world. And then I began to suspect what she did…and didn't tell me. Not in so many words. If she had, I'd have gotten her some silphium, no matter what. I thought she might have to maim or torture...something to prove loyalty." Guilt and self-recrimination lined the older man's face, a world of regret carving its mark in his very surface.

"I don't understand…Death Eaters didn't use birth control?" Hermione looked perplexed.

"No," Draco confirmed, carefully avoiding her eyes feeling two red spots burn high on his cheeks. "Pureblood mothers were expected to bear as many children as they could in the name of keeping the bloodline viable. Not that it helped."

Hermione made a repulsed sound. "Those poor women."

"Indeed," Bibulus replied. "So it wasn't long after that she managed to contact me, about three months gone with child. She wouldn't be able to hide it from the father much longer, she said, and needed an extraction. So I staged one, had her arrested at a pub in Knockturn Alley, charged her with purchasing Dark artifacts or some rot. Let several of her companions witness so they could have a good story about what had happened to her, carry it back to the circle of Death Eater sympathizers."

He brushed a hand over his mouth, rubbing his chin with harsh movements. "We smuggled her into a safe house to give birth. Later on, after the Battle of Hogwarts, she moved to Little Flagley. I gave her the capital to get her potions business off the ground."

"Did she ever mention anything that she might have kept from her time in the Death Eaters' Circle? Pictures, a love token?" Hermione asked searchingly. "If we could find it, it might support your story."

Draco flicked a glance at her, but kept his face neutral. If she could manage to do the same, they might pull this off. Mentally, he made a note that Hermione was far more a Slytherin than he gave her credit for.

"She'd have a little gold pin hidden somewhere in her house," Bibulus said confidently. "Shape of a Dark Mark. Sign of favor from a Death Eater to his mistress. Naomi wanted to toss it into the fire or into the ocean when she got out of there, but I convinced her not to."

"Why?" Hermione asked.

"If the fight didn't go in our favor, and we lost, Naomi could claim that she'd been hiding out with her son, faithfully waiting for the day when the Order wasn't watching her, to seek protection for her son from that Death Eater," Bibulus replied. "But it went in our favor, and he wasn't caught. So Naomi kept it with the idea that if the father ever came looking for her, looking for revenge, she'd have that trinket and be able to claim that she'd kept faith, but kept quiet."

" _Who_ was the father?" Draco asked impatiently. "Obviously he wasn't one of the ones caught after the Battle of Hogwarts."

"Damned if I know," Bibulus said with a sigh. "She wouldn't tell me, and I couldn't get a hint of his name out of her. Said that it was better for everyone if no one knew, because then the secret wouldn't get out. She wouldn't have to worry about gossip being correct. After the Battle of Hogwarts, she looked over the name of those arrested, only said that he must have escaped." He paused, his features crumpling just slightly. "I've looked over the pictures of the missing Death Eaters a thousand times, tried to match one of them to Nigel. But he just looks so much like her…" he trailed off.

"So you're saying that Naomi's death might have been at the hands of Nigel's father?" Draco said softly, bringing the older man back to focus.

"Possibly," Bibulus sighed. "It's also possible this is revenge from another Death Eater, or someone in the Order who might have considered her a collaborator, not knowing he was born because Naomi was trying to save lives. Or it was just a bleeding stupid accident taking that brilliant girl." He cleared his throat, getting hold of himself. "In any case, I'm not risking Nigel's life by making that assumption. Someone – the father, even – might not shy away from killing his own son."

"Why didn't you tell us about this yesterday?" Hermione asked shrewdly. "We could have had Nigel under full Auror protection if you'd told us this."

Bibulus snorted. "Whoever did this isn't coming after Nigel like a parade of elephants. They're doing it sly, sneaky. And if I told you two this officially, then it would be on the official record, and Skeeter…"

"Would have had a field day," Hermione said, fury beginning to spark in her eyes.

"Naomi deserves better than that," Bibulus intoned, his scar jumping oddly along his cheek. "And since I'm the one who recruited her into this mess, I'm the one who can bloody well make sure her son stays clear of it."

"How often did you see Naomi and Nigel?" Draco asked, attempting to gage Bibulus's familiarity with the house.

"Few times a month," Bibulus answered dutifully. "Usually met her and Nigel in a park or a zoo – Naomi looked for any chance to get out of the house. I'm Uncle Bibby." He looked rather proud at this last statement, and Draco thought for a moment that Bibulus looked like Remus Lupin, paternal, proud, and wry.

"What kinds of gifts did you give Nigel?" Hermione chimed in with a question.

For the first time, Bibulus looked genuinely perplexed by her question.

"A little pack of plastic animals from the London Zoo," he said, casting about for an answer. "Charmed them to act like real animals. A play broomstick, some junior toys from that Wheezes shop. Can't remember anything from this summer…"

Hermione waved the question away.

"Do...do you know how he's doing?" The question from the older man came out small and uncertain.

This, to say the least, was unexpected. Draco prided himself on being able to divine intent and deceit in others, and so far as he could tell, Bibulus was in earnest.

"He's not great," he told him softly. "But he's surviving."

Bibulus nodded firmly and cleared his throat roughly. "Let's keep it that way. You may not trust me, but please trust that I would move heaven and earth to keep that boy safe. I was no threat to Naomi, I am no threat to him, and I will be no threat to your investigation."

Draco shared a glance with his partner. Hermione's eyes reflected the same concern and caution that he knew was in his own features.

"We'd feel a little more comfortable if you explained this to Oddsbodds," Hermione said slowly, looking at her partner, speaking as if she were handing the words over to Draco for consideration before pronounciation. "But he is discreet. I assume you don't want the circumstances of Nigel's birth on public record."

"Not hardly."

"We'll check the house for such a pin and see if we can corroborate your story," Draco said, reaching for pen and paper to write a memo warning Oddsbodds not to mention the pin. "Let me see if I can reach him in his office."

Scratching out the note and tapping it with his wand to send it on its way, Draco felt Hermione's hand light gently on his shoulder. "I'm going to confer with Investigator Malfoy outside for a moment," she said to Bibulus. "Please wait here a moment."

Draco followed Hermione out into the hall, wondering what her angle was.

"Muffliato!" Hermione exclaimed, pointing her wand at the door. "Okay. If you want to escort him to Oddsbodds, I'll go get Shacklebolt. If anyone left alive in the Order would know about this, it would be him."

Draco blinked a bit at her daring. "You're going to just casually ask the Minister of Magic if he can stop by and provide testimony?"

"Nothing's on the record yet," Hermione said carefully, glancing up and down the hallway. "If Shacklebolt can corroborate it, we can't completely eliminate Bibulus, but we can investigate this as a possible retaliatory move."

"It's entirely possible," Draco replied, attempting to think back to his fifth year, wondering if he might have glimpsed Naomi at some point. "Wish we had some idea of who the father is, though. Ask me, that's suspect number one."

"Agreed," Hermione said with a firm nod of her chin. "We can't rule out retribution from another mistress that she might have known, or another Death Eater who might have known her, even a Death Eater sympathizer."

"My money's still on the father," Draco replied, frowning at her stubbornness. "If this is actually a murder - and we don't know for sure that it is - only the father would have reason enough to go after Naomi. Anyone else would have gone after a bigger target - Potter, Shacklebolt...you..." he trailed off.

She quirked a smile up at him, looking slyly out from beneath her lashes. "You think I'm a target?"

Draco felt himself flush right to the tips of his ears. "It's not a joke!" he exclaimed, certain that she knew exactly what was going on inside his head and heart, and was laughing at him.

Hermione's face fell. "You're right. It's not." She tucked her wand into a cloak pocket. "But in any case, I'll go find Shacklebolt and see what he says. Are you okay taking Bibulus to Oddsbodds' office?"

"Of course," he replied, wondering at her Gryffindor courage. "Send me a memo if Shacklebolt backs Bibulus up."

She dipped her head in assent and turned, speeding off into the nave of the Ministry. Draco watched the woman he loved head towards the job he knew she'd one day hold, her hair swaying against the small of her back, and slowly turned back to his dark office.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco only had about a half-hour's uncomfortable wait in Oddsbodds' office, hearing the story's repetition, when Hermione's promised memo came blazing in. He snatched it out of the air with aplomb, excusing himself to read it outside.

 _Draco,_

 _Shacklebolt confirms Bibulus's story. He wasn't a part of the special operations team they were on, but he was high enough in the Order to be aware of them. Naomi was an Order member - Bibulus was her contact and recruiter. She was extracted at about the point we were told, and a safe house was found for her to give birth and begin raising Nigel in. He didn't have any leads on who Nigel's father might be, either._

 _As for where Bibulus was when Naomi died, Harry confirmed that he and Orfin were off on a case investigating counterfeit currency, in conjunction with Gringotts. They'd met far earlier this morning. (Did you know goblins are most productive in the predawn hours? I'd never known about it, but apparently that's one reason the Aurors hate having to work cases with them! I can guess at a few others...) Apparently when word came through about the explosion, he went haring off to Little Flagley, offending the goblin liasion to the Aurors. Doesn't put him completely in the clear, but doesn't hurt, either._

 _I'll meet you in the evidence room._

 _\- Hermione_

 _PS - Going to need to put some security on Nigel as soon as possible. Discreetly._

With slow, deliberate folds, Draco placed the memo in his cloak pocket, pondering their next move. Security for Nigel would be paramount, as would be keeping a lid on the situation. He winced at the thought of what Skeeter would do if she caught a hint of the potential story within.

It could still all be an accident. It would be hard to prove otherwise, with no observable breach of the wards, no witness in the house besides Nigel, and no answer to the question of who Nigel's father was.

He reentered the office, giving Oddsbodds the smallest of nods. He couldn't guarantee the older wizard understood his complete meaning, but the permission to relax was clear. Oddsbodds' fingers loosened their grip on his wand, just the slightest. Draco saw Bibulus's eyes flick towards the movement, acknowledging what this meant.

"I'm assuming someone vouched for me," he said flatly, as Draco passed Hermione's note to Oddsbodds.

"You understand that we have to be careful," Draco reminded him. "If you'd have been us, you'd have done the same."

"Fairly certain I have," Bibulus retorted, "given _your_ history, Malfoy Junior."

Draco was almost surprised at the lightning-quick surge of anger that shot through his veins, at how quickly his vision went white. He wheeled around on his heel, a retort on his lips.

Oddsbodds beat him to the punch. "Brutus, I might remind you that anyone else would and could name you as a suspect. Investigator Malfoy has done his duty, as has Investigator Granger. You might have come to us at once, instead of lurking around my Investigators. Please consider a modicum of politeness with the people on whom your innocence might rely."

His words did the work they were required for. Bibulus shut his mouth, looking truculent.

Draco, for his part, took a deep breath, releasing it through his nose, feeling the fury trickle back from his joints, coalescing in the pit of his stomach, making a cold knot that weighed heavily against his innards. He glared back at Bibulus, who couldn't seem to meet his eyes, focusing instead on Oddsbodds' collection of peacock quills.

Oddsbodds, for his part, read Hermione's note thoroughly, ignoring the attempted staring contest in his office.

"Mr. Bibulus, I've taken your statement," he began. "We'll keep it private out of courtesy to the Auror office, and owing to the sensitivity of the investigation. However, we need to present it to the Auror's office, in order to get a security detail on Nigel Thiesssen. If you would be so kind as to accompany me to your office?"

With an assent and a scowl, the Auror got to his feet and stomped out into the hallway. Oddsbodds flicked his wand at the door, closing it quietly.

"It's more than a little unusual," he said slowly, rubbing the lines on his temple. "I agree with Investigator Granger's assessment, but we can't go running around, jumping to the conclusion that this is murder. After all..."

"After all, it could just be an accident." Draco sighed. "Trying not to go directly to the more dramatic scenario, sir."

Oddsbodds smiled beatifically. "That is why you are such a good Investigator. Now go and see how Investigator Granger is doing. If this is just an accident, we'll all have fewer headaches and more sleep."

Draco walked slowly down the halls, ruminating over the confrontation with Bibulus. He was accustomed to more or less gradual acceptance from the MLE crowds. This sharp encounter was one more reminder not to drop his guard.

He wondered whether his parents had the smarter idea in fleeing for anonymity or low profiles in other lands. But then, of course, he wouldn't have become an Investigator. He wouldn't have met…no, wouldn't have gotten to really know Hermione.

Draco's heart gave a funny thump at the thought of her, a gentle scolding for briefly forgetting the turmoil it had endured earlier that day. If he'd left with his parents, he would not be left with this exquisite torment. Perhaps that wouldn't have been the worst thing.

Or perhaps it would be the worst tragedy of all.

Cutting off his maudlin train of thought and vowing to get good and pissed with Zabini as soon as possible, Draco turned towards the Evidence Room.

* * *

"I am Sher-locked?" The new password to the evidence room still befuddled Draco even as he said it.

The portrait of the thin man in the deerstalker took a pipe out of his mouth. "Is that a question or a statement?"

"It's the password, isn't it?"

The figure in the portrait replaced the pipe, taking a thoughtful puff. "It's all in the inflection. And the right question can unlock everything."

Draco folded his arms against his chest. "May I enter the evidence room or not?"

"If you can say one thing that isn't a question."

"Bugger off, _wanker_."

"Deduction for cheek. Marks for a technically correct answer." The portrait swung open to reveal Hermione bent over an examination table, intently sifting through Naomi's book of potions orders.

"You have got to explain that password to me one of these days," he remarked by way of greeting, leaning next to Hermione's table.

"Give me six to eight hours of your time on the weekend, a DVD player, and a pizza, and we might just get to that episode," she fired back, not even bothering to look up. "What's with the newbie?" She indicated with her thumb, pointing towards the far corner of the room.

Draco stepped over to see a fresh-faced MLE trainee on the floor, legs straight up in the air, balancing a plank on the soles of his feet. Atop the plank were bags of evidence, teetering as the young man's legs shifted in discomfort. He looked up at Draco, blue eyes wide with appeal for mercy.

The evidence wasn't real, of course, but there was no reason for the trainees to know that.

"This would be MLE trainee Matthew Mockridge," Draco deadpanned. "Walked into a crime scene without Soft Steps on, didn't you, Mockridge?"

"Yes sir," came the slightly strangled voice. "Sir, if I could just take a moment to express my sincerest apologies…"

"Mockridge!" Draco barked. "I really think the evidence would appreciate your full attention, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, then shook her head and smiled. "You might want to take a look at this," she said, indicating the shards of Naomi's cauldron scattered in front of her. "This is definitely the one that caused the explosion – look at the pressure pushing against the normal bend of the iron."

Using her wand to flick several shards into the air, she moved them about wordlessly until they fit together like puzzle pieces, floating around the initial ring of iron he'd seen at the scene. Draco pursed his lips.

"That was an Ironcast three-sixty-five, correct?"

Hermione nodded, and Draco turned to find a matching cauldron from among the lab's stores. Using a Hover charm to hold it up against the shards, they wordlessly confirmed the cauldron.

"This wasn't something that took several seconds," Hermione said, eyes fixed on the comparative cauldrons. "This was quick and violent. Look at the distention of the top pieces."

"Given the location of the majority of the wounds, I'd say she was probably leaning over the cauldron," Draco murmured, imagining the scene in his mind. "Either she was in the process of adding something, or investigating some strange reaction."

"I'd go with the former," Hermione replied. "Her right arm was nearly destroyed as well, so she probably had it over the cauldron when the explosion happened." She beckoned to his cauldron, and he placed it on the table in front of her. She demonstrated, holding her right arm over the cauldron, leaning over as if to add an ingredient.

Draco sighed. "Any idea what that potion might have been?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't, but I've been pulling out the shards from the debris since I got back. There are some ledgers over there – they're kind of singed, but one of them might have a clue." She indicated a small mountain of books and folders, the smell of their char lingering in the air.

Draco slashed the air with his wand, neatly dividing the pile of ledgers into two equal piles. "Let's to it, then."

They spent a busy, peaceful hour in the evidence room, almost silent except for the occasional grunts of Mockridge as the plank of fake evidence swayed on his feet, the routine crackling sound as they repaired singed parchment.

Thankfully, Naomi had been fairly good at dating her invoices, so between the two of them, they could sort out the pile fairly quickly. All potions, however, seemed fairly benign - Pepper-Up, Confusing Concoctions, various hair tonics and skin potions. Draught of Peace was particularly popular among those who had seen action in the war, and appropriately enough, there was a large demand for it.

"You getting the same conclusion I am?" Draco murmured as they worked through the pile. "I don't see any really volatile ingredients here. Naomi seemed to specialize in health potions. Unless you count Bubotuber Pus."

"Wouldn't discount it," Hermione replied with a touch of asperity, leafing through the last folder in her pile and flipping her braid back over her shoulder. "Do you think she kept volatile ingredients, just in case? I've looked at her order list - there's nothing that really jumps out at me."

"We checked that lab up and down," Draco said, aggravated. "If we didn't find it, it was completely destroyed, or someone brought it in..." He broke off, glancing in Mockridge's direction, then looking back at Hermione.

She rolled her eyes, but clambered off the stool to stand over the trainee officer, hands on her hips, looking her fiercest. "Mockridge, is it?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Hold still a moment." Draco watched, amused, as Hermione delicately lifted the plank off of Mockridge's feet. "Don't lower your feet yet. Remember this when you enter a crime scene. Keeping the evidence pure is important. It's how we keep you guys safe in return, and how we help you do your job. Without evidence, MLE officers could be chasing their tails for days while the perpetrator gets away. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Right, then. Up you get."

Draco nearly stumbled off of his stool in a belated attempt to help Hermione with lifting the trainee to his feet.

"Report back to Ferguson," Draco told the young man, with a friendly pat to his shoulder. "Tell him that you preserved the evidence."

They watched with some amusement as Mockridge hobbled out the door.

"Do you think we're being too harsh with them?" Hermione said worriedly, her smile melting into a look of concern.

"Says the woman who sent Butterfield on a wild Krup chase."

"I know, but he's an arse. Mockridge is just a stupid kid who made a mistake."

"And will _never_ make that mistake again," he finished for her. "Learning from one's errors is a key component to life as a Slytherin. Mockridge will put Soft Steps on before he gets out of bed in the morning."

"I'm not even sure he'll take them off to walk down the aisle," Hermione mused.

Draco's heart twisted suddenly, glancing at her bare hand.

"I know, I know, I've got a one-track mind," Hermione said, clearly expecting him to tease her. "But you try becoming the sixth or seventh Mrs. Weasley out there and figure out how you're going to stand out in the crowd."

"You'll be the only non-ginger." The response was out of his mouth before he could stop it. "And besides, you're taking his last name?"

Hermione's shoulders slumped, and Draco instantly regretted his words.

"I don't think there's a way out of this that won't make me feel guilty," she muttered.

"Why?" She shot him a sideways questioning glance. "Remember, Hermione, for good or ill, I happen to know a lot about last names."

Hermione blew out her cheeks in frustration. "If I do, I become one of many Mrs. Weasleys. My identity becomes tied with them, and whenever I do something, people will always say, 'Oh, which Weasley boy did she marry?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "If I don't, they'll take it as an insult. And like it or not, my whole world is kind of tied into the Weasley clan. Most of my closest friends are either part of them, married to them, or good friends or colleagues with one of them."

"Not me," Draco replied, lifting an eyebrow. He considered reminding her of hyphenation, but realized it wouldn't be in his own interest to do so.

Hermione smiled slowly at him, and Draco's cheeks burned, feeling that she'd given him a gift. He struggled to keep his expression bland.

"No," she replied, obviously relishing her words. "You are my island of blond tranquility in a sea of ginger fury."

He snorted, and she giggled.

"Back to work," she sighed, and Draco warmed to the obvious regret in her voice. "Now that Mockridge is gone, did Oddsbodds believe Bibulus?"

"To a point," he replied. "He's taking Bibulus before the MLE offices, requesting a full security detail on him."

"Good," Hermione replied. "Shacklebolt wasn't aware of the details of Naomi's involvement, but he did confirm that she was a part of the Order, and that Bibulus was her contact." She paused. "He also seemed to feel that Bibulus looked at Naomi as a daughter, almost. I guess her parents died and she only had a Pureblood aunt living – easier to hide her bloodline that way – and he thought of himself as looking out for her. And for Nigel."

Draco sighed. "I'll start working up a list of Death Eaters who haven't been captured yet…"

"No!" she cried, pressing a warm fingertip to his lips. Draco could have sworn he felt a crackling pulse spreading out from that point of contact. "Don't look for zebras!"

"First Sher-locked, now zebras," he replied, not bothering to move his lips from her finger. "If you're going to keep referencing these Muggle sayings, you really need to give me some kind of guide."

Hermione withdrew her finger and regarded him steadily. "It's an old saying – it goes, _If you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras._ This could still be a random mistake…"

"If you and I were on the Serengeti of Kenya, and we heard hoofbeats, then I think I'd grab your arm and yell, ' _Run_ _away_ _from the zebras_!'"

"Draco…"

"Just the same, the fact that we're investigating the sudden and untimely death of a woman who used to spy on Death Eaters introduces a strong possibility that this isn't just a tragic accident," he continued doggedly. "I'm not saying we shouldn't investigate the possibility that it's an accident. But we're nervous enough to call in Aurors to protect her son. Let's be cautious enough to figure out who this might be before they strike again. Or get away."

Hermione looked at him curiously. "All right."

"All right? I expected more of a fight."

"We've sent away samples of chemical residue from everything that came close to Naomi, and they should be coming back soon," Hermione replied, ticking each reason off her fingers. "Oddsbodds should be back with autopsy reports soon, and whatever order forms might tell us what Naomi was working on were consumed in the explosion. Until we get those reports back, we're just kicking our heels. Might as well do something that might be useful."

She paused, and looked up at him through her lashes. "Unless you want to help me decide on a locale for the wedding…"

He held her gaze balefully, while pulling out a sheet of parchment and slapping it on the table. Hermione smirked. "Didn't think so."

" _Anyway_." Draco reached for a quill, dipping it in ink with a rather savage gesture. "Suspects?"

"Rowle," Hermione replied, thoughtfully, dragging a stool over to sit next to him at the table. "There've been suspected sightings, but nothing definite."

Draco dutifully scratched down the name. "Rabastan Lestrange," he continued, the name conjuring up the image of a thin, weedy man crouched at his parents' hearth, nervously shifting from foot to foot. "It's possible - they broke out of Azkaban just a few months after..." He let the sentence trail off, unwilling to voice the name of the demon who had tormented his family.

"It's possible," Hermione said encouragingly. "Avery?"

Draco nodded. "Mulciber?"

"Neither went to Azkaban - they could certainly be prime suspects."

They worked back and forth for some time, compliling a list of known Death Eaters who weren't currently in Azkaban - or dead. Draco had completely lost track of the time when the clock perched on the skeleton let him know that it was nearly six.

"Surprised we haven't gotten any reports by now," he said, jerking a thumb at the clock. "Is it backed up in Analysis, do you think?"

As if conjured by his words, the door opened and Butterfield stomped in, shoes squeaking wetly on the floor, his clothes soaked, water dripping off of his nose.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about a secret labyrinth of grottoes underneath the Ministry, would you?" he asked, apropos of nothing. "I think I saw a selkie."

"Was her name Sidheag?" Hermione piped up beside him.

"We didn't exchange pleasantries."

Hermione nodded with a little satisfied smile. "That's Sidheag."

"Selkies notwithstanding, I do have some reports for you," Butterfield proffered a sheaf of parchment that must have been charmed to stay dry. "Someone else must have processed your evidence."

"Shame about that," Draco drawled in mock-sympathy. "Ever find that nameplate?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," Butterfield sneered back. "In a pile of glitter and shiny trash. Wonder why they didn't go for your hair?"

"Pixies evidently don't know a real treasure when they find it."

"Thank you, Benjamon." Hermione cut in, taking the parchment and cutting their conversation short. "We'll take it from here."

The other man sniffed, and turned with the air of an offended cat.

"Drying charms are mandatory for third years, idiot!" Draco called out at his back. Without looking back, Butterfield offered a two-fingered salute as the portrait door slammed.

Hermione frowned at him. He raised an eyebrow, not cowed. "C'mon, Hermione. Glitter?"

"I didn't want to raid other people's offices!" she whispered, scandalized.

Draco smirked, and bent over the parchment she held.

"Autopsy report," Hermione muttered. "Massive trauma, loss of blood, minimal burns and chars..."

"Well, that's something," Draco remarked. "No burns, massive trauma - she was killed by the explosion, not from fire or burns. Or from something before the explosion."

"We've been assuming that the fire was from the chemicals in the explosion," Hermione mused, poring over the parchment. "But she died from the impact of the explosion."

"One hell of an explosion," he commented. "Anything about the residue on the cauldron shards?"

Hermione scanned the parchment. "Not in Butterfield's hands, thank Merlin. Due tomorrow, midday…oh!" Draco looked up in alarm, but Hermione just looked annoyed.

"I repaired Naomi's wand…well, about as much as it's going to be. I needed a witness for the Priori Incantatem." Wordlessly, she summoned a battered-looking, but intact wand from its place across the room, and turned to him. Draco nodded.

" _Priori Incantatem!"_

Instantly, white jets of smoke began to pour from the tip of Naomi's wand. Suddenly, a jet of water spouted out, splattering the evidence room floor. Draco used one hand to scratch down the Aguamenti spell on a fresh piece of parchment. His other hand, outstretched, held his wand as it siphoned up the water from the floor.

He nodded at Hermione, and she held on to the wand.

Once more, smoke began to pour from the wand, and a white light rushed forward, pausing, then rushing towards a sharp scalpel. Lifting it from its wall hanging, the ghost of the spell caused it to chop madly at everything in sight, destroying a potions manual and a pair of thick dragonhide gloves before aiming its pointy end at them.

" _Protego_!" Draco cried, shielding Hermione and himself with a flash of light. "Hermione, let it go! It's been broken, it's going to keep misfiring! Merlin help us if Naomi tried to start a fire yesterday!"

" _Finite_!" Hermione cried. The smoke vanished, and the scalpel clattered harmlessly to the floor.

He glanced over, expecting her to be as taken aback as he, but Gryffindor to the end, Hermione had already turned back to her notes. "So the last spell she did was Aguamenti – could she have been attempting to extinguish something in her lab?"

"Possibly," he replied, picking the scalpel up carefully and restoring it to its wall holster. "Or the potion might have called for water at that point. The spell before might have been to chop up ingredients."

"Not necessarily for a potion," Hermione returned. "Remember those knives I set down in her kitchen? Perhaps she started breakfast for herself and Nigel, then went into the workshop to start, or maybe continue work on a potion."

The slightly glassy look in her eyes let him know that she was watching the scene unfold in her mind's eye: Nigel, asleep in bed or expectant at the table, cheerful as Teddy was wont to be in the morning. Naomi, setting the knives to chopping ingredients, and leaving just briefly for the workshop, her son's babble trailing brightly behind her. In the cool darkness of the potions workshop, she added water to a bubbling cauldron, then a pinch of something else...

Something sounds wrong – the potion turns the wrong color – steam begins to pour when it shouldn't – and Naomi's world bursts into light.

"Considering how fast the explosion must have been, looking at that cauldron, I doubt Naomi had too much time to extinguish a fire," Draco said, still looking at the image in his own mind's eye.

Hermione sighed. "We need those results."

"Patience, my dear Gryffindor."

"Enough with patience. The workday's over. Let's take a swim."

Draco looked at her sharply, excitement welling up inside his chest. "In the underground grottoes?

"Nah. Sidheag's already had one disturbance for the day." Hermione paused, then frowned. "I'm not quite sure how Butterfield found it. The trail I left didn't go anywhere near there."


	8. Chapter 8

Lit from below, with a ceiling charmed to show off the night sky, the _palaestrum_ pool was a glowing rectangular sapphire, popular with many of the Ministry's employees. At that time of day, the pool was mostly empty. Draco liked it that way. He only allowed the scars on his chest and the brand on his arm to touch air when he was certain to be alone.

Except when he swam with Hermione.

She was fairly discreet about her own scars, a cherry-red slash across her stomach, the crude lettering on her arm. Draco knew he was not the only one to glimpse these scars, but between the two of them, he felt rather safe in her regard. As if the two of them had secrets that were only comfortable shared between them.

Until now.

Draco paused in front of the mirror in his swimming trunks, examining his form. Yesterday he would have leaped into the water without a second thought, safe in the knowledge that crush or not, she cut a fine figure in the pool – and so did he.

The tall blond wizard in the mirror stared back at him, unimpressed. His physique had improved since the horrors of the war, muscle added to his thighs and chest and arms. He flexed a bicep, pleased for a moment, then less so when it relaxed. The _palaestrum_ had improved their definition…and yet when he looked in the mirror, he still saw a skinny, pale wizard waiting to get kicked into the pool.

He glanced around once more to make sure no one was there, then dropped to the tile floor to begin push-ups.

 _One…two…three…how long would he have with her before her troll of a fiancee dragged her home?_

"Draco?" Hermione's voice wound around the corner, catching him off-balance. "You okay in there?"

"Yeah," he called back, attempting to brush the grit off of his palms. "Lost a sock."

"Just summon it!" she called back, impatient. "I've been waiting for the pool all day! Stress relief, you know?"

He smiled, and stepped out into the dim lighting of the evening pool.

Her back was to him, clad in her favorite purple tankini. Once he emerged, she grinned, and jumped matter-of-factly into the deep end. He watched as she swam with powerful sidestrokes to the opposite end, cleaving through the water like a knife.

Hermione was no slouch in the _palaestrum_ , but swimming was where she excelled. Back and forth, weaving through foam like a shuttle in a loom, he watched her until he began to feel awkward. Stepping into the pool with less alacrity than she had shown, Draco reclined into the warm saltwater, closing his eyes and floating on the water's surface.

He could begin a backstroke, true, but nothing felt better at this moment than simply letting the water hold him.

Closing his eyes, he mentally tracked Hermione's progress by her splashing. When it ceased abruptly, he cracked an eye open. Wise to this game by now, he took a deep breath, filling his lungs, and flipped over.

Opening his eyes underwater, his vision blurred in the multitude of blue. Within a few moments, however, he was able to pick out Hermione's limber form kicking her way towards him. He pointed a finger at her, letting her know she'd been caught.

With a moue of disappointment, she shot like a dolphin to the surface. Draco followed.

For a moment, there was no sound except for the two of them taking deep breaths to refill their lungs.

"Almost had you," Hermione looked as triumphant as if she actually had pulled him under.

"Did not," he replied. "You're just a noisy swimmer. Fast, but noisy."

Hermione rolled her eyes, flipping over to float on her back. Taking the opportunity, he followed suit. Together, they stared at the rippling light reflected from the pool water.

Her guard was down. Instinctually, he knew this. It might be an ideal time to prey on her insecurities about Ron, about her wedding, about her future job. She was too smart for this, though, and would remember it, even if the first of his plans went through. He would not be rewarded for planting the seeds of doubt in her mind.

Perhaps he should use an intermediary?

"I never had to be quiet at Hogwarts," Hermione said, apropos of nothing and breaking into his thoughts.

"You swam in the _lake_?" he said, turning to regard her. "With the giant squid and everything? _Gryffindors_..."

"Not in the lake," she replied, flicking a bit of water at him. "In the pool."

"There was a pool?"

"A _hidden_ swimming pool."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe it or not, it's there. Underneath the kitchens. Everyone always wants to go there, but if you know where to look, you can find it. Check it out, next time you're there."

"That would be the fifth of Never. Eighth year was bad enough."

She hummed in sympathy, bumping his shoulder with his, and he smiled. Then his thoughts turned to the reason for his eighth-year troubles.

"You know, there's one suspect we haven't added to the list," he said, attempting to figure out if she really meant for her hair to tickle his side. "My father."

Hermione turned to look at him abruptly, but he stared resolutely at the stars on the roof above their heads.

"He was devoted to your mother..." she began haltingly.

"He is and always has been a selfish bastard," Draco cut in, nettled. "Don't defend him. Summer between second and third year I finally figured out where he went at night, why he kept odd hours, why he never seemed to be where he said he would be. Wasn't to a pub. Wasn't even to a meeting with his old cronies. Put Mother through hell. For all I know, Nigel's my half-brother."

Hermione was silent. Then, quietly, "He's not blond enough. Naomi wasn't blond enough. Whatever his sins, your father _definitely_ has a type."

His laughter surprised and embarrassed him, like an unexpected burp. But Hermione joined him in it, her curls drifting in the water to alight on his shoulder.

"Really, though, Nigel looks nothing like you or your father. Even Teddy, when his hair is blue, looks a bit like you."

"That would be the Black side of the family."

"Yup. Like I said, heredity shows. Even as much as you look like your father, the Black lineage still shows up in you."

"Huh." He was oddly comforted by this. "I...actually don't know what your family looks like, except from those broken pictures on your desk."

"Broken?" She sounded puzzled, then laughed. "Oh, no. Muggle pictures don't generally move. And I don't look much like my parents, either. Mum used to joke that the mailman dropped me off."

Draco could only surmise that the Muggle world didn't use owls. "The rest of your family?"

Hermione pursed her lips, considering. "Mum was adopted from an orphanage when she was a baby, so we've no idea about blood relatives. Dad's an only child, and Grandmum and Grandpop passed when I was little. I suppose there's extended family, but Dad would have to spearhead that, and...right now he thinks he's Wendell Wilkins."

He turned his head, but she was looking away from him, into the shadowy corners of the room. Tentatively, he reached out with his index finger, linking it around her own in the smallest of embraces. A moment, and she squeezed back.

"I'd give a lot to complain to Mum some days," he murmured. "She did such a good job of acting interested at my petty little dramas, considering how much was going on in her life."

He felt Hermione squeeze his finger with her own a bit more. "I'd love to listen to Dad drone on about his cricket team's chances."

They were quiet a while longer, and Draco closed his eyes and wished he could stop time right at that moment. Just live in this space, floating in the cool water next to the woman he loved. The water lapped gently around their bodies, and Hermione didn't seem inclined to let him go. Her curls tickled his shoulder, and her toes occasionally bumped his knee.

He might try a Patronus one of these days.

"There is one thing I'd give a lot to know," Hermione said thoughtfully, and he opened his eyes, fading back into the room.

"Hmmm?"

"Why did you think that I'd stopped playing?"

"What?" He was two seconds too late. Her warm hands seized his shoulders, dunking him under the water.

Draco flailed for a moment, then rose to the surface, sputtering and reaching for her. Hermione had easily outpaced him, working her arms in a backstroke so that she could laugh merrily at him as she swam away.

He charged after her, but Hermione was already meters ahead of him. She grasped the lip of the pool and grinned at him in triumph as he arrived a few seconds behind him.

"You'd think _I_ was the Slytherin here," she said smugly.

"Plenty of time to re-sort," Draco huffed, more for show than anything. He gripped the lip of the pool beside her, leaving little room for water to pass between them.

"Plenty of time to race again," she said easily. "With proper warning."

He was going to tackle her. Let her get a length ahead, then seize her 'round the ankles and flip her over his shoulder, and he'd not only one-up her, he'd be able to hold her close...

"Hermione!"

His heart sank into his stomach. Ron Weasley, in full and flowing Auror robes, stood at the entrance to the pool. His eyes immediately narrowed and focused on the half-naked man next to his swimsuit-clad fiancee. Draco was torn between the desire to stick out his chest and stare the wizard down - and the desire to sink beneath the water and cover his scars.

"Weasley."

"Malfoy."

"Ron!" Hermione exclaims. "I thought you were in training this evening."

Ron's expression slips just slightly. "Fell through," he said easily, coming to loom over them. "Can I tempt you away for a private dinner? We didn't get a chance to celebrate, just you and me." He sounds almost sulky, and if he hadn't been under a promise to Hermione, Draco might have mentioned that those who enjoyed private dinners didn't go around proposing on bartops.

Hermione turned pleading eyes his way, and Draco tried to shrug diffidently. "I'll do your laps for you." The smile she turned on him was almost worth it.

"Figured we wouldn't get a chance tomorrow, what with the in-service you're supposed to do," Ron said easily, ignoring the exchange between them.

" _In-service?_ " Hermione shared a dismayed look with Draco.

Ron's cheeks turned pink. "Thought they owled you. Maybe you won't get called?"

"Merlin forbid." Draco spat the words out as if they tasted bad. "Timing couldn't be worse. We're expecting results back."

"They don't care," Hermione muttered, then brightened. "Maybe the fact that they haven't owled us means they're deferring to our investigation?"

"One can only hope," Draco muttered. "Need a boost?"

Hermione smiled, and he cupped his hands together for her to step in, helping her out of the pool.

"She's a witch," Ron snarled. "Doesn't need your help." Hermione stood without her fiancee's and smiled at her partner.

"Yes," she agreed. "And Draco is a gentleman."

Draco placed a hand on his bare chest and bowed, returning Ron's challenging stare smugly as Hermione turned her back, calling out a farewell, then turned to her fiancee and began chastising him in an undertone. He couldn't make out the words, but he'd know that tone anywhere.

He watched them leave, then began swimming laps in earnest. He'd need to tire himself out to sleep that night.


	9. Chapter 9

In-service days were an inordinate waste of time, in Draco's opinion.

The entire department, shoved into a meeting room with a pot of weak tea and a pile of stale pastries, listening to a motivational speaker drone on, or mindlessly filling out worksheets about proper dress in the workplace. Draco was rather mystified as to why he had to fill out what was appropriate for women to wear - he wasn't a woman, and had no plans to transition.

If Hermione deemed the speaker unworthy of attention, she usually joined him in a silent game of hangman or a silenced coded lock that they had to figure out how to open. If she decided to listen in, he would spend that time writing insults about the speaker on her parchment, trying to make her giggle.

He should have suspected his feelings then, he noted wryly to himself.

The barn owl waiting on his desk that morning looked as cross as he felt. Though he'd fortified himself with an extra spoon of sugar in his coffee, tucked a few extra granola bars into his robes, he hoped desperately that they wouldn't be needed.

He was wrong.

The summons was as pompously-worded as any that one might expect from the Ministry - no clue given to the topic of the meeting, but a curious note about dressing for the cold drew his eye back to the thin lining of his boots. He kept a pair of warmer ones in the office for just this occasion.

The owl shrieked, startling him. Fumbling through his pockets, Draco produced half of a granola bar, presenting it to the owl, who eyed it suspiciously, grabbed it, and spat it out on its way out the door. It only just missed Hermione as she stepped through the door, ducking to avoid the owl's wings.

"What was that all about?" she asked, spinning to watch the owl go.

"That's the reason I'm skipping the game this morning," Draco grumbled, holding up the summons for her to see. "Don't think I could plead the fact that we're in the middle of an investigation?"

Hermione shook her head. "I checked with Oddsbodds before Ron and I left last night. Apparently, we're always in the middle of an investigation, and that's no longer an excuse. Maybe that's why they're taking you and leaving me. I can continue the investigation while you get bored to tears, and next week you'll carry on while I contemplate stabbing my eyes out with a quill."

His lips quirked, mostly in regret that they wouldn't be able to complain together.

"When do you need to be there?" Hermione prompted gently.

"Ten minutes," he sighed. "I'd better get on it."

Hermione shifted, letting down her satchel. "I'll walk you there."

Draco smiled, opening the door for her and sealing it behind them.

"Anything I can do for you while you're gone?" Hermione asked, walking him to the general meeting room in the MLE.

"Like what?" He was surprised, but oddly touched by her inquiry.

"I don't know…any possibilities to investigate that you didn't say? I've never noticed any animal hair on your robes, but maybe you have a pet that needs feeding or walking…" These training sessions could last long into the night, if the older Aurors were of a mind.

"Actually, Granger," he said, turning to her with a serious look. "There is _some_ thing you can do for me."

"Name it," she said easily.

He blinked, but kept on, keeping deep and serious eye contact with her. "Back at my flat, behind the door in my bedroom? The siding at the floor is cracked. Lift it up and you'll find a secret compartment - the word to open it with is 'dragonhide'." Hermione was taking him in seriously, eyes just a little wide. He glanced around, checking to make sure they weren't being overheard.

"Inside that compartment is a small purple gem, about the size of a button," he continued, holding thumb and forefinger up to indicate size. "If I'm not back by midnight, I want you to take that gem…and eat it."

" _Eat_ it?" She looked perplexed.

He nodded seriously.

Her lips twisted in that familiar way, the one that showed she was on to him. "You're joking."

"Yes, Granger. I am." He allowed himself a small, pleased grin, like a little boy, and it produced a mirror effect on her own face. "But no. If I had thought of anything, I'd have told you."

"Right, then," she said, nudging his shoulder. "Good luck."

"Thanks," he replied, his insides humming.

He turned away, only to drop like a stone as an owl came soaring down at his head, talons outstretched. Hermione allowed the bird to perch on her arm matter-of-factly, untying the note on its leg.

Draco dusted himself off, hoping that no one had seen his fall.

"Merlin's _pants_!" Hermione exploded above him, gripping the note in her hand.

"What?" Draco fished the other half of the granola bar out of his pocket, presenting it to the owl, then ducking as the owl spat it out over his head.

"I'm a late addition to the in-service day!" she sputtered. "We're going to have to postpone the entire investigation for some trifle thought up by a Ministry employee trying to justify their existence on the payroll!"

"We need to let Oddsbodds know," Draco returned. "Maybe he can continue it, or at least keep us on it rather than having it transferred."

They dashed back to the Investigations department, Hermione muttering darkly behind him. They burst into Oddsbodds' office, only to have him shake two pieces of parchment above his head.

"Worthless paper-pushers!" he cried. "Wasting our time when there are leads that will burn out, suspects that could get away..." He scowled at the two of them, as if they were at fault. "It might have been okay if we were allowed to continue the investigation, but with both of you called, we'll have to postpone it. Get back here as soon as you can, unless it goes to the end of the day. I'll do what I can to keep the case from being transferred."

He tossed a few chocolate bars at them. "Here. Happy Christmas. You'll need them to get through today. So help me, if they've held up actual department business to snipe about time off requests..."

* * *

Defeated, Draco and Hermione rushed to get back to the meeting room on time, ducking inter-office memos and groups of oblivious witches and wizards. They just barely made it in, no time to cast Cushioning charms on their seats before the Minister of Magic stood up on the dais.

"Good morning," Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep voice cut across the room. "Thank you all for making room in your schedules to be here."

Draco exchanged a look with his partner.

"We're going to cover consequences for our mistakes in today's in-service," Shacklebolt continued. "We considered a simple show-and-tell of statistics, estimates of people wrongly imprisoned, the percentage of people who are estimated to use their position for influence in other arenas of our world. But it is my firm belief that an object lesson is the most useful one."

Draco saw heads perk up around him, attention re-focused at the possibility that this might not be business as usual. He recognized a handful of other Investigators, along with several MLE officers and Aurors. There were other wizards and witches representing other departments, a few Unspeakables from the Department of Mysteries, Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, a few loud twonks from the Sports Department...but he recognized only a few. It was very different from the days in which his father had run things...

"We will be flying out to the now defunct prison of Azkaban," Shacklebolt said, pausing to allow his audience a moment to digest this in gasps and sputtered exclamations. "I assure you, the Dementors have long since been driven from the premises. Some of the former guards will conduct tours. As anti-apparition wards are still a part of Azkaban's composition, we will arrive at a point via Apparition, then travel the rest of the way by broomstick."

Draco saw Hermione's lips tighten in dismay. He'd guessed once already in their Observation Game that she wasn't a natural at broomsticks (and endured her scowl for the next eight hours). Would it it be too forward to...?

"You can ride with me," he murmured into her hair, roughly in the area that her ear would be.

"Thank you," she breathed back, tickling his ear. "You don't have to, you know. I _can_ ride."

"You kidding me?" he whispered back. "I'll be using _you_ as a windbreak."

The poke in his ribs was well-deserved.

* * *

"Comet 140s? These were popular when my grandfather was in Hogwarts," Draco muttered in an undertone to Hermione, as they arrived at the apparition point on the coast of the Northern Sea. The wind churned the water into a great roiling grey pool, only slightly darker than the slate of the cloudy sky above it.

Hermione shuddered as the wind buffeted them, and pulled her cloak closer. "As long as they're fast, I don't really care." She shivered again, and Draco was reminded of something that he'd seen Blaise pull with a witch that had seemed to work to his advantage...

"Whatever the Sports Department had rotting in its back shed, I reckon," he replied moodily, noting the uneven trim of the broom bristles, the deep grooves and lack of care given to the stick itself. He called the broomstick to his hand, easily gripping it, trying to remember the last time he'd played a game of Quidditch. Loosening and unbuttoning his cloak, he tipped his hand, waiting for her to join him.

She looked at him suspiciously. "Aren't you going to be cold?"

"Not for long." He gestured, a bit imperiously, for her to climb onboard. With another curious look, she did so, seating herself right behind him, looping her arms about his waist a bit awkwardly. Draco hesitated - he'd been hoping that she would sit in front of him...but perhaps this was a better situation. She wouldn't be able to tell if he had an...ungentlemanly...response to her nearness.

He untucked a sleeve, wordlessly enlarged the cloak, then twisted around on the spot to wrap it around her, and back to himself. Draco felt her cast a Warming charm on them both, and both of her hands grip his shoulders. He was a little disappointed that she hadn't chosen to encircle his waist with her arms, press herself against him...but if she was keeping a respectable distance, he couldn't blame her.

Also, her legs embraced his hips, which he couldn't complain about.

"Ready?" he called back to her.

"No, but when has that stopped me?"

He grinned, and set his grip on the broomstick, waiting for the signal. Eventually, Shacklebolt raised an arm, their signal to take off. He kicked off from the ground. Hermione's hands tightened on his shoulders, and they gained altitude rapidly, following the dark blue dot that was Shacklebolt. Draco twisted his head to the side to see several other MLE employees paired up on broomsticks as well.

It never hurt to have a good excuse. Particularly when a Weasley was wielding his fists.

The winter wind whipped them sharply in the face, and he felt Hermione press her face against his spine, ducking the wind.

He smiled, and pressed on.

An hour or so later, when the band was darting through a cold mist, and he could barely see the whitecaps of the waves below, Shacklebolt raised an arm, veering to the left. Draco followed blindly through the mist, hoping to Merlin that Minister of Magic knew where he was going.

He did.

In the excitement of flying with the woman he secretly loved, Draco had conveniently forgotten that they would be flying to _Azkaban_.

The mist cleared abruptly, as if it could go no further, and Draco suspected wards were in place. Below them, pummeled by waves, gleaming like a black diamond, stood the wizard prison.

Abandoned only a few short years ago, dementors driven out, Azkaban was deemed unsuitable for keeping inmates with magical powers. The new prison, rumored to be on the isle of North Rona, was kept secret from the public. Inspections were allowed, but the inspectors were sworn to secrecy on its location. Evidently, the new government was taking no chances, with the large number of former Death Eaters now in custody.

The British Wizarding Prison, however, did not hold the same aura of terror as the prison standing before Draco now. Just the word Azkaban conjured up untold horrors.

With the greatest reluctance, Draco steered them towards a platform lit with large bonfires, from which Shacklebolt stood, waiting for them all to arrive, purple robes flapping restlessly about his feet.

Hermione dismounted lightly, waiting for him to stand beside her. She'd braided her hair in its accustomed work style, but the wind played havoc with it anyway. Draco felt it touch icy fingers along his scalp.

"Most who have entered here came here as criminals, processed and judged rightly by the Ministry, at least until Scrimgeour fell from power." Shacklebolt's voice rumbled above the howl of the wind. There was, Draco reflected, a real art to public speaking in the midst of a windstorm in the North Sea.

"Others came here for different reasons," Shacklebolt continued. "Innocent of the charges they were tried on, but forced to live here for years, sometimes until the end of their days."

"Or the Ministry just shoved them here when they had no other suspects and someone kept Petrifying students," Hermione muttered lowly.

"Our system is not perfect," Shacklebolt progressed. "We prosecute on the evidence that we find, to the best of our ability. However, sometimes the system fails. Sometimes the evidence is processed incorrectly. Sometimes an officer takes a bribe. Sometimes inattention can have the worst consequences. Yet we do not suffer those consequences. Those who fall into our system do.

"I will not speak long, it is too cold out here for that. But I want you to remember that this was the punishment for those who deserved it, minus the misery of the Dementors. But it was also hell for those who did not deserve it. The tour will begin at the left. Please follow Investigator Azad."

At this, a tall investigator that Draco knew by reputation raised her arm, and the assemblage slowly followed her through an archway.

Draco waited, looking around at the small courtyard drenched in ocean spray, outer edges glazing over into ice.

He was about to step into the place where his father had been shoved for a year.

Where _he_ had escaped from by the skin of his teeth.

Hermione gently pushed his arm, and he moved forward, mechanically, into the bowels of the prison.

 _Five twenty-two_. His father's voice, delirious and pained, whispered in his ear. _Five twenty-two and still there._


	10. Chapter 10

Misery was etched into these walls, and nothing would ever wash it out.

Nothing would ever wash out the stench of prisoners kept in a place without much in the way of bathing rooms (or necessary facilities) either. Several MLE employees had cast discreet bubble-head charms over themselves. Draco and Hermione, along with several other Investigators pulled along for the ride, was used to worse.

Then they turned a corner and Draco felt his gorge rise.

This scent was concentrated, made all the worse for the lack of habitation. Without air to pass through it, the reek did not freshen. Draco smelled the ghosts of unwashed bodies, sickness, filth, an undernote of urine. His gorge rose. Beside him, Hermione's wand flicked silently and a bubble formed around her head.

Draco's fingers twitched, but he resisted the urge to cast one over himself. His father had lived with the reek, and by rights, he himself should be dealing with it now. He could stand it for a few hours. He was strong enough to stay and weather this.

His mouth, however, opened in a desperate attempt to accustom himself to the smell. Hermione lifted her wand, her eyes a question mark. He shook his head, and she nodded, her eyes still puzzled.

"Dementors do not sleep, nor do they require sustenance," came the muffled voice of Investigator Azad, speaking through her bubble. "All they require is a supply of misery to feed off of. Now that we no longer employ such methods, more is required to keep prisoners occupied. Prior to the second Wizarding War, prisoners were allowed no more than one walk a day in the courtyard."

She gestured at a sunken square in the midst of the housing, bare of anything but stone. Instead of a clear window of the sky above, a tangle of black iron fencing roofed the exposed area, twisting and bending before his eyes, squeezing tight any area that might have been open a moment before. Escape was not possible, not even to jump into the North Sea.

"Why not let them walk around the battlements?" spoke up a fresh-faced MLE officer. Beside him, Hermione rolled her eyes.

"To keep them safe," Azad leveled a glare at the young man. "The despair wrought by the Dementors and by the prospect of life here would cause many to throw themselves into the sea."

Despair. Hopelessness. Unbidden, the image of his parents' reunion flew through his mind's eye. Father, wasted and pale, his hair a tangled and filthy mess, moaning into Mother's neck. Draco, watching from his aunt's side, had thought his father injured, hurt in some way that he had not seen when the older man shuffled into the room. Then the realization that he was _weeping_ shocked Draco so much that his mouth hung open.

He'd never thought of his father in any guise but that of power. When his mind wandered to the thought of him, imprisoned in Azkaban that terrible year, he only saw his father, sitting in a stone cell, angry at those who had gotten him here...and those who failed to get him out. For a moment, he felt confused tears prick his own eyes. Then Aunt Bella made a sneering remark at his father's expense, and Draco snapped back into his mask.

"How was the prison staffed?" The young voice somewhere ahead of them in the crowd snapped Draco out of his reverie.

This was a question that met more with Azad's approval. "To house guards with the prisoners here would punish them as well as the prisoners. Instead, a rotating system was worked out where food was delivered to the prisoners twice a day, and a midday walk was allowed. There are several courtyards, so guards were able to keep the prisoners in near-total isolation."

Hermione gripped the cloak about her shoulders a little tighter.

"Guards would fly in for breakfast and evening meal delivery, as well as to walk the prisoners," Azad continued. "They would be paired together for safety and to prevent one of them from becoming overcome by the Dementors. Each was also expected to check each inmate daily to make sure that the prisoner was still alive and in reasonable good health. The usual phrase, I believe, was to call out the prisoner's cell number and condition."

 _Five-twenty-two and still there._

His father had cried the phrase in his sleep, loud enough to echo throughout the manor. Draco remembered slipping through the hallways until he stood at the threshold of his father's bedroom, house-elves dancing agitatedly at his feet. He never got there first - his mother was always there, pressing Lucius's face into her neck. She'd sometimes see him there, and shake her head - his father would not want anyone else to see him like this.

 _Five-twenty-two and still there._

He'd tell one of the elves to bring his parents some tea or cocoa. Unsure whether or not to ask them to add firewhiskey, he left it to his mother's capable hands, then went back to his own room to stare at the ceiling for hours.

He knew what he had to do. He wasn't sure it would be allowed, but he needed to know.

They turned on to walk through the halls between inmate cells, and the space grew more confined. As he expected, numbers were hewn into the stone above the door of each cell. The width of the halls forced them to move together more tightly, more slowly as officers lingered by the cell doors, gawking at the interiors. Draco's attention was elsewhere, drifting deliberately away from Hermione's side, easing his way to the back of the line.

Inside the cells, contents varied, giving little clue as to who might have once resided there. Some were littered with trash and waste caked on the stone floors. Others were fixed with large chains spanning their centers restraining the more violent inmates. Small cots were kept neatly in some, others seemed to have smashed theirs to bits in a rage. Little earthenware bowls were shoved into corners, most empty, some filled with dried or rotting food.

Even in the most boring rooms of the Ministry of Magic, ghosts occasionally flitted through, interested in what was happening in the world. In Azkaban, however, the place was unnervingly devoid of their presence. Whatever waited a person in the afterlife, Draco guessed, could hold no more horrors than this place.

The aroma was worse the further into a cell one traveled - Draco held a fold of his cloak up to his face until he grew accustomed to the smell. Inside the cell, however, he could see the other marks an inmate left behind - graffiti of varying grammatical standards.

 _The Dark Lord will avenge me!_

 _I will be free. You will never be anything but a Mudblood._

 _The Dark Lord is coming for your children. They will feed his pet._

Some smeared foul language and phrases onto their walls with what (he hoped) was food. Dark Marks, varying in intricacy, could be found on many cell walls. Others wrote the names of loved ones - Draco recognized more than a few names - with pleas to be remembered if they never got out of the prison. Usually these were scratched into the stone, effort needed to wear away at the granite.

 _If I remember nothing else, I loved Araminta._

 _Lettice and Callum - your father did these things, he did them for you._

 _I don't know why I'm here._

 _I don't want to live in this world._

 _All I did was be born. I took nothing from no one._

 _Flora. Flora. Flora. Flora. Flora._

Draco made it to the back of the line, then glanced up at the numbers, noting that they were at 349. Most of the inhabitants who had lived here were Muggle-borns, crammed cheek-by-jowl. In a peculiar bit of racism that Draco did not understand, cells in which Death Eaters and other imprisoned purebloods had been housed were deemed "too good" for Muggle-born prisoners.

Pretending that he wanted a closer look at one of the cells, he stepped inside, examining the graffiti, but really listening for the steps outside to fade away. When he was sure they had, he slipped around a bend, searching for the five-hundred block of cells. The prison was a bit of a labyrinth, and he pointed his wand at different points in the hall as he went, marking where he'd been with red spots.

The smells varied as he stepped along - putrid here, almost nothing there. He wondered if some blocks had been left empty on purpose.

A small sound came from behind him, and he started, heart pounding in his ears. When it did not continue, he berated himself. What did he expect? A prisoner left behind? Adementor still lurking the hallways? Certainly no ghosts.

He continued on, lighting the hallways with a muttered _Lumos_ as he went.

Draco's stomach jolted nauseatingly when he turned a corner and saw the first of the five-hundred block cells. He stopped a moment, wondering if this wasn't the most idiotic thing he'd ever done. It wasn't as if he thought his father would be waiting for him in the cell. Wherever Lucius was, the last place he'd ever go would be back to Azkaban, even without Dementors.

This was the worst kind of curiosity. And yet he needed to know...

His feet moved woodenly, taking him the final steps down the corridor.

 **5-2-2**

The door was ajar, left where it had been blasted open by a spell. Draco picked his way over the splintered wood, taking care to gently push the cell door open. Even so, it creaked open with a sound like a constipated hippogriff.

"Lumos," Draco muttered, peering into the corners of the tiny cell, wand raised as if he expected something to jump out at him.

All in all, it wasn't much bigger than a broom shed. A cot, at least a foot too short for his father's tall frame, lay square in one corner. A bucket for waste sat in the corner opposite, near the door. The stones were grimy, smeared with filth that Draco didn't even want to contemplate.

A slit of a window looked out onto the grey sea, charmed to prevent anything from being thrown out - and to keep the rain and wind out. Even so, the cold seeped into the room, causing him to shiver and pull his cloak more tightly about himself.

His father had spent a year here, a year so terrible that he would do just about anything to never return.

 _Five-twenty-two and still there._

His shoulders slumped, and he wondered yet again what he'd hoped to gain from this room. Probably a reprimand when he returned to the group.

As he turned, his eyes caught sight of them, faint, like the barest impressions of ancient runes. He halted mid-swivel, and held his wand closer. Above the bed, etched in crude lettering, were two names.

NARCISSA

DRACO

He could not have been more surprised if his father had swung round the corner and punched him in the face. He stared at the reality of his father's love in the markings, reached out a hand to trace them, knowing that the last hand to touch it had likely been his father's.

For a moment, all the anger and confusion he'd held for his father disappeared, and he was once more a little boy standing at his father's side. Grit and stone dust adhered to his fingertip, and he worried it against his thumb, thinking of the time it had probably taken to carve it out, and what little his father would have had to work with.

Stripped of everything else, Lucius Malfoy put what he valued most on the walls of his prison cell, a reminder of what he could not do without.

His reverie passed quickly, the degree of irony to which Draco had been subjected to in his life practically demanded it. But as he realized his time was up and he'd better rejoin the group, he stopped at the door, turning to look once more to look at the room. A room that he, very easily, might have occupied himself.

All that time he'd plotted and sweated in the Room of Requirement, all his frustrated tears and nights spent staring at the ceiling...his father had been in here. His mother might as well have been a prisoner, never leaving the Manor, pacing the floor, weeping. And now he had no idea where either of them might be.

He hoped it was someplace warmer than this.

Reluctantly, he turned to walk out the door.

A few yards away, idly flipping her wand between her fingers, Hermione leaned against the wall, head turned in the other direction. His surprise must have shown on his face, because she put up a hand.

"I wanted a look at the battlements, and you didn't think it was safe to go by myself," she said, her oval face neutral.

He nodded in thanks. Hermione always gave the best gifts, even when they weren't wrapped.

"How..." her brow furrowed, and she trailed off, afraid to ask something he wasn't willing to give.

"Ask," he replied patiently. She'd earned it. She'd been playing the observation game even when they weren't officially playing.

"How did you know which one?" she replied quietly. He could see the little fingers of fire curling, midair, that she'd left as guidemarks to let them walk back. He focused on them, rather than on her face.

"He used to scream it at night," Draco replied quietly. "Five-twenty-two and still there. Then Mum would dose him with Firewhiskey or I'd get a Calming Concoction down his throat."

He was quiet a moment longer, then the words came spilling out of him. "He carved our names on the wall."

Hermione simply nodded. She knew him well enough by now to know that he wouldn't welcome a hug. But he didn't mind her presence near him the rest of the day, keeping the chill at bay. They drifted back to the edges of the group, receiving nothing more than a raised eyebrow from one of the MLE minders.

Draco listened to the rest of the talk on autopilot, numb to whatever was going on around him. He dutifully walked with the group to each of the points of interest, grateful that they never neared Cell 522. When bad weather was reported and the visit was cut short, he closed his eyes in gratitude to whatever deity had decided to cut short his torture.

He found the broom, mounted it, and waited for Hermione to climb aboard in front of him. But he found himself blinking in confusion when she simply enlarged his cloak, then slipped underneath it behind him, seating herself on the broomstick. Instead of gripping his shoulders, though, she embraced him fully, her arms wrapped securely about his chest, her thighs clasping his hips, her nose and lips breathing warmly against his neck.

He took off quickly, so that no one would see the tears stinging his eyes. He had not known how much he needed that embrace until then. Hermione, to her credit, did not let go, asking if she could still hold onto him in the rough weather. They both knew the weather wasn't any rougher on the return flight, but she held him securely, anyway, matching her breathing to his, despite the blond hairs that must have been tickling her nose.

If he hadn't loved her then, he would have begun on that flight.

But eventually, like so many things, it ended. Rather than meet her eyes, he nodded once in thanks, as she carefully dismounted the broom.

Hermione checked her watch. "Earlier back than we thought."

"Not enough so that we could go back and work," Draco grumbled discontentedly.

"Nah." Hermione shuffled a bit. "Do you mind if I take off? I'd like to surprise Ron for once, and..." she trailed off, but he knew what she meant. He'd seen the look on Weasley's face.

"Go right ahead," he said. "I'll see if I can sneak past Oddsbodds and get some work done."

"You'll do no such thing," came a stout voice off to the side. Oddsbodds leaned against the wall, observing them with an inscrutable expression. "Go do some Christmas shopping. Go take a young lady out for a drink. Go see your aunt. But _don't_ try to get anything past a fellow Slytherin, is that understood?"

Draco blinked, startled. "Completely, sir."

Oddsbodds tipped his hat to them and continued on his way out the door, twirling his wand in one hand.

"Did you know he was Slytherin?" Hermione murmured in an undertone. Draco shook his head, bemused. That had been happening a lot, lately.


	11. Chapter 11

Apologies this chapter is late - I'm a librarian in the United States, and with the eclipse happening, we've literally gotten more than 3,000 calls in the last week, mostly from people trying to find eclipse glasses. Our event today was jammed! Others were concerned and wanted our opinion on whether this meant the end times, if they could go outside during the eclipse without glasses on, if pets would be okay during the eclipse, etc. Basically, I'm concerned about the level of science education in this country...

Additionally, there's a bit of sexual content in this chapter. If you'd like to skip it, read the first section, then at the first line break, scroll down to the next line break, and start reading again. Enjoy!

* * *

While Draco did not go back to work, he did not take any of Oddsbodd's suggestions, either. Instead, he moped disconsolately in front of the fire, attempting to read the Prophet, but eventually giving up and settling for lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

This situation was untenable. He could not live like this forever. And it had only been a handful of days...

He probably should have gone to see Meda and Teddy. Talking to them always cleared his head. Meda would certainly understand what he'd been going through, and Teddy could cheer him out of anything.

He really should ask for a transfer. If he couldn't ask her out, it was too painful to stay by her side every day, all day long...

He should have gone swimming. A little physical exertion would have tired him out, refocused his mind. Instead, all his mind could do was throw images of Hermione in the Weasel's arms. Cuddled together, warm in bed, hands and legs intertwined...

He slammed the door of his thoughts shut on that particular image, pulling the coverlet up to his neck and rolling onto his side. Better to imagine her alone. Better not to think of her at all. Better to quit with this feeling entirely than to have to live like this.

Draco shut his eyes, and willed himself to sleep.

* * *

He realized he was not alone in his bedroom when the strong smell of mint wafted into his senses.

Draco had no idea how she'd gotten into his room, but quickly found that he didn't care.

She was here, in his bed.

 _Hermione was_ _here_.

He didn't question, didn't bother asking. Anything like that would break this spell, and he could not bear that.

Her legs twined about his hips warmly, soft arms holding him close, those dear, dry, slender hands threading through his hair. They weren't exactly kissing – more like a leisurely nuzzling along each other's faces. She laughed as he groaned in contentment – he loved having his scalp scratched, and she obliged by gently raking her nails behind his ears. He nipped at her throat in return, working his way up to her earlobe, making her gasp in a halting rasp against his ears, while his hands roamed freely over the expanse of her fevered skin. She retaliated by slowly working a leg between his own, twisting, and flipping him onto his back, where he gave a startled gasp of laughter and then a groan of arousal. She grinned, delighted in her own cleverness and in his response.

Dimly, he realized they were both unclothed.

She bent over him – he couldn't make out her breasts, shrouded in the dark of the bedroom, where his eyes would automatically go in such a situation – smiling almost conspiratorially, as if they were both in on some delicious secret. She kissed him, lighter than pixie wings, and pulled away when he tried to deepen the kiss. Instead, she threaded her long fingers between his, pushing them back against the pillow. He grinned, and she shared it – he'd always rather enjoyed this position.

Instead of going to it, though, she levered herself down, a little jerk of her head causing her hair to flip over, enclosing them both in this private paradise. She kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose, his lips, lingering as he tried to get her to stay, his pointy chin, his Adam's apple, the hollow of his throat…he was mad for her, writhing under her studied ministrations. But she stopped.

With a glance up to make sure he was watching, she leaned down and placed a long, lingering kiss on his chest, right over his beating heart. He inhaled on a shuddering sob. She took his right hand, pulling it up to rest over her soft breast, where her own heart beat strongly.

With that movement, he was overtaken with a sudden, desperate madness to have her, to know her, thrilled at the prospect that she might know him, elated at the thought that she wanted his heart. She was letting him know. She was telling him that she knew he had a heart, and that it was precious to her, enough so to take it into her own.

She accepted him, loved him, wanted to be loved in return. She _believed_ in him. This was it, that elusive happiness that made his soul soar, what he'd been chasing for years.

The moment before he took her lips in a frantic melding, before he could even properly touch her, Draco woke up achingly hard and fumbling for his dream-lover - for _Hermione_ \- in his empty sheets. Several heart-pounding moments of panic passed before he realized he was alone.

Cursing, he tried to finish himself off then, return to sleep, but the room in his dream had been this one, and the memory of the dream was too fresh. He staggered to the bathroom, wringing himself out to the dream-feeling of her hands on him, her legs about his hips, her lips on his.

Afterward, Draco gripped the basin of the sink, breathing hard, not in passion, but in anguish. He stared at his hands, long-fingered and white-knuckled on the porcelain. With his fingers and hers, they would have long-fingered children, sons with curly brown hair, daughters with feathery blond locks- _NO_.

Hermione was not his, and he was not hers.

Finally, he wept in despair at the sink, telling himself that it was all right – no ghosts to watch him here, no one to laugh or scold at this unmanly display of emotion, no Potter to burst in, wand at the ready – it was all right if it would lessen this pain in his chest. No one would know, and that would be the end of it, he promised himself. He could long for it, but it would only happen in dreams. Best to keep it there.

He went back to bed, feeling dry and curiously empty, and stared at the ceiling for a long time, his thoughts drifting painfully once more to the image of Hermione, curled up and content in Weasley's arms. To shut out that image and the ensuing pain, he pictured her alone in a bed (he'd never seen her room). Alone and as restless as he.

* * *

For the second time that night, Draco awoke suddenly, sitting straight up in bed. He looked around the room, blearily searching for what had awakened him.

Nothing. He inhaled, blinking rapidly.

 _Ding!_ His Floo chime, at this hour, could never mean anything good. His mind immediately flew to Meda, Teddy, Hermione - even the off-chance that his parents had turned up. He threw on a dressing gown hurriedly and padded out to meet it, wand in hand.

A head in the embers of the hearth shifted as he approached. He blinked, startled, then fell to his knees in front of it. "Hermione? Are you all right?"

The flames wreathing her head flashed as she opened her mouth several times, trying to speak, only succeeding in looking as if she were attempting to breathe in the glowing embers.

"Come on through," he said, forgetting for a moment the role she'd played in his earlier dreams. He held out a hand, and she grasped it, coming through the Floo in a shower of soot. Draco dispersed the filth with a wave of his wand, pulling Hermione to her feet.

"Are you all right?" he repeated, releasing her and looking her over for injury or some clue as to her tongue. Again, she struggled for speech, but came up voiceless.

"Have you been cursed?" Draco considered the possibility. "Blink twice for yes, three times for no."

"I could just shake or nod my head, you great prat," she squeaked out, her voice unnaturally high.

"Points for logic this late," he parried. "Still not an answer."

He peered more closely at her face in the firelight, catching the shiny track of tears down her cheeks, the red rims of her eyes. Her hair was askew, not neatly braided away, and he thought he caught a whiff of alcohol on her breath.

"Let me get you a cup of tea," he said, parsing the possibilities, leading her to his overstuffed settee and sitting her down. She folded into the cushions, but stopped him from leaving with a light hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry, Draco," she struggled out, moving from squeaking to a croaking voice. "I shouldn't have woken you up. I was stupid to come here."

"You're the smartest person I know, Hermione," he replied, sitting down on the cushion next to hers, keeping a respectable distance between their knees. "Something's got you upset. If you came here, I can only assume that you had an intelligent reason. Besides, I don't sleep. I hang upside down like a bat until morning."

She didn't smile at his poor attempt at wit, but he could feel her softening, the initial embarrassment at her dishelveled state fading away.

"Hermione," he said, keeping his voice low, indicating their privacy. "I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to. If it's a secret, I can keep it. But you've always had my back. Let me watch yours."

Hermione stared up at him through teary eyes, squeezing them shut at his words. She took a deep breath, refusing to look at him as she spoke.

"We got back early, and I was going to surprise him," she ground out. "I snuck in through the back of the shop."

Draco could only assume she meant Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and the Weasel himself.

"He was..." her voice cracked, and she swallowed, and started again. "With another witch..." Her voice cracked again, and she broke off, sobbing into her hand.

It was enough. Draco could imagine the rest.

"I was so _stupid_!" she burst out, her chest heaving on a sob. " _So_ stupid. I'm supposed to be an Investigator, and the clues were right there in front of me! Those odd hours he was working at the store! The perfume he gave me was _hers_ , so I wouldn't smell it on him! I thought he was being romantic with the flowers…I think they were out of guilt-." Her voice broke, but not from an end to her pain – Draco could feel it growing in the air about her.

"Stop it," he cut her off, more harshly than he'd intended. She looked up sharply, and he crouched to be on level with her. "Don't you dare blame yourself for this, Hermione. This was Weasley's doing. You're a marvelous Investigator, and you know when to shut off your emotions on a case. You shouldn't have to do that at home. You shouldn't have to suspect that every irregularity comes from something bad."

Hermione finally broke her gaze from his, squeezing her eyes shut as she nodded.

"They all knew," she croaked. "All of them. George was trying to stop me from going to the storage room. Mrs. Weasley was trying to teach me to cook, said I wouldn't hang onto him if I couldn't. Bill advised me not to join our accounts...I don't know if Harry and Ginny knew…Ginny was asking me if I'd overcome all my doubts, and Harry and Ron are _best friends_ -." She broke off on another heartbroken wail, and Draco began to understand.

Weasley hadn't just betrayed her. He'd cut Hermione off from the people she'd considered her adopted family by the act of asking for them to cover for him. He'd asked them to choose, and they'd had to go with blood. But Potter...

"You really think Potter'd do something like that?" he asked, resolving not to think of being in the odd position of sticking up for Potty.

"I didn't think _Ron_ would!" she nearly howled, burying her hands in her face, drawing her knees up to her chest. Draco checked himself. He thought he could logic her out of this, but that didn't seem to be working. She needed to feel secure.

Cautiously, afraid that he might be doing the wrong thing entirely, and perhaps for the wrong reasons, he levered himself over to sit on the couch beside her, easing an arm around her shoulders with light pressure. Enough for her to pull away if she wanted. He could not have anticipated the quickness with which she flung her arms about his back, the wetness of her teary face against his neck, the knee in his stomach which he quickly shifted with a grunt. Eventually, they ended up with her nearly sitting on his lap, sobbing into his chest, him with one arm firmly about her waist and the other embracing her shoulders. He attempted to stroke her hair, but her sobs were violent, and his hand kept bouncing, so he went back to holding her through the storm.

It was a horrible parody of his dreams - the intimate embrace, the shared breath. Draco firmly told his body to calm down - this was neither the time nor the place - and any bodily reaction (no matter how involuntary) would not be taken lightly. Instead, he began to inventory the Weasley clan and wonder who might be covering for Ron. He also wondered if this was the last gasp of Hermione's relationship with the twonk, or if she would forgive him and settle.

He'd watched his mother in such a position more times than he could count. Each time, he knew her heart broke. Each time, she forgave and accepted Lucius back.

Eventually, Hermione's sobs ebbed away, and they could only hear their own breathing against the crackle of the rekindled fire.

"Mmmf mff muumf moo." The words, mumbled into his chest, were incomprehensible.

"What?"

She pulled away slightly. "I don't know what to do."

"You don't have to."

She knitted her brow, as if this was an incomprehensible answer.

"Seriously, Hermione. You're just going to go to sleep and deal with this in the morning. You don't have to have the answer now." He felt her body relax, and took the opportunity to pull her up to her feet. "Come on. I'll tuck you in."

"I'm not putting you out," Hermione protested.

"I'm not dealing with the generations of Malfoy and Black ghosts who would line up to tell me how ungentlemanly it would be to make a lady sleep on the settee," he replied firmly, thanking his lucky stars that he'd managed to make it to the bathroom earlier. "Come on. I'll tell Oddsbodds you're feeling ill. Take the morning, at the very least, and sleep."

He guided her into his room, discreetly attempting to leave a hangover potion on the bedside table while kicking the day's discarded socks under the bed. Fortunately, Hermione didn't seem to notice, toeing off her own shoes and looking longingly at his pillows.

"Green bedclothes, Draco?"

He summoned a smirk out of habit. "I look good in every color."

Draco opened a closet, pulling out a pair of loose cotton sleeping pants and a shirt for her to change into. "Let me grab my clothes for tomorrow, and you can sleep. The larder's stocked, grab anything you want. I'll owl you if there's something earth-shattering about the case-"

"Draco." His heart panged, and he turned to look her in the eyes. "I don't know how to...I...thank you."

He smiled, and it was a true smile. "Sleep. My flat's warded. No one gets in here unless you want them. If you need a Dreamless, it's in the bathroom cabinet."

She nodded, and crawled under the covers. Draco closed the door behind him.

Once it shut, he felt his smile drop in something approximating shock. He was tempted to peek back in, make sure this wasn't another wild dream.

Instead, he transfigured a tea towel into a blanket, and reset the Cushioning Charm on the settee. A moment later, curled up and staring into the flames, he thought back to his last words to Hermione - Hermione who lay in his bed, just a few feet away, probably staring at the ceiling.

 _No one gets in here unless you want them._

He was uncertain how he wanted her to interpret that. He settled on the assumption that she was still too grief-stricken to think much about it, and closed his eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

Draco had settled into the stack of paperwork that he'd set for himself that day, glad that he'd decided to get there early, no matter the reason. His quill, however, drifted aimlessly across the parchment, his thoughts on Hermione – without a fiancee, sleeping in his bed. Right now, she was probably curled in his sheets, her shoes under his bed, her wild hair across his pillow…and heartbroken. He tried to force himself from such thoughts. Just because she'd broken up with her loser of a boyfriend was no reason to think that he was Option Number Two. Not that there should really be an option other than himself, but…

His thoughts broke off as Potter barged in, banging the door against the wall.

"Where's Hermione?" he demanded, without preamble. The Prat Who Wouldn't Die looked angry enough to spit fire, and Draco's finger brushed the tip of his wand where it lay carelessly on his desk.

"And what would you want with her?" he shot back icily, making sure to hold Potter's gaze as he rose to his feet, surreptitiously palming his wand.

"None of your business," Potter spat, looking somewhat threatening with his wand clenched in a handkerchief-swaddled hand.

"You're wrong at that, Potter," Draco snarled back, feeling the hair on his nape rise. "Hermione's my partner, and I've got her back. That means I don't just give out her location to someone who looks like he's going to make her feel worse."

"I'm not going to-."

"Did _you_ know?" Draco cut him off. He had the pleasure of seeing Potter go pale. It didn't happen often, and made the scar on his forehead stand out rather alarmingly. "What happened to your hand?"

"No…I decked Ron, I think." This appeared to be the first time that Potter had realized what he'd done. All the residual anger seemed to bleed out of him at that, and he relaxed somewhat, tucking his wand into his robe pocket. "She thinks I knew? And didn't tell her? She's like my _sister_ – I'd _never_ do that!"

Draco felt himself relax minutely. "She knows that a good deal of the ginger clan knew about it and was covering it up from her. She's not sure who was in on it and who wasn't."

" _Not_ _me_ ," Potter said fervently, "and not Ginny. When Gin finds him, she'll make what I did look like a slap on the wrist. George is already stockpiling explosives if Ron ever tries to get in the door again."

Draco said nothing, watching the other wizard for any minute detail that would give away complicity with the Weasley clan. He could find none. Potter's forehead was wrinkled in worry (which did amusing things to his scar), his fists were still loosely clenched, and his eyes were still wide with horror.

No, Draco was pretty sure that Potter hadn't known.

"Where is she?" Potter asked again, more politely.

"I'm not going to say," Draco began, watching Potter's hair bristle. "But I _will_ owl her. If she wants to talk to you, that's her decision."

He paused. "I'll mention _that_ ," he finished, nodding at Potter's injured hand. "You break Weasley's nose?"

Potter blinked. "I…I don't know. Maybe? I didn't stop to look."

Draco smirked. "Good."

"Thanks," Potter muttered, turning around and leaving as quickly as he'd entered.

Draco shook his head at the strangeness of being in agreement with Potter. He turned his attention back to the lab reports.

Nearly as soon as Potter had exited, however, Butterfield returned with a sheaf of stamped parchment, halting before Draco's desk, clutching the reports.

"Took you long enough," Draco snorted, attempting to conceal his spark of interest.

"We don't all take vacations to the North Sea," Butterfield returned spitefully, then glanced around. "Where's Granger?"

"Sick. So no one's here to stop me from hexing you if you don't hand over that report right now."

Butterfield tossed the report on Draco's desk and began rifling through his own papers with a flourish. Draco ignored him and began scanning the report.

Naomi Thiessen had died from a combination of Bundimun slug secretion mixed with ammoniacum. The two ingredients, which normally never even shared cupboard space, had somehow combined in Naomi's cauldron to kill her.

Draco yanked open a file drawer, taking out his notes on Naomi's potion orders. According to the notes they'd been able to salvage, she had been brewing a hair care potion for those with sensitive scalps - one that needed Bundimun secretion. Most other ingredients were inert, and this highly acidic ingredient was used only for its properties in helping eliminate dandruff and prevent receding hairlines.

Draco recalled his father's own retreating follicles and made a mental note.

Ammoniacum, however, was nowhere on the list - nor was it on any other orders. Finding his inventory of Naomi's orders for potions ingredients, he could not find the strongly alkaline ingredient anywhere. It didn't necessarily mean anything - it might have been destroyed in the explosion, or her supply might have been older than her inventory notes.

It was still a very odd combination, one that even Snape at his worst would never have allowed. Ammoniacum he would have allowed, Bundimun secretion he would not have. Accident...or intentional? It never hurt to be thorough.

The order had been placed by one Isla Islington, also of Flagpole. Draco fired off a memo to the Aurors suggesting that they bring her in for questioning, then a report to Oddsbodds on their status.

By that point, Butterfield had abandoned their office for the lab, and lunch hour had arrived. Hemming and hawing a bit, Draco made his decision, Flooing to his flat before he could debate on it overmuch.

* * *

It felt a little odd, tiptoeing into his own place, as if he was a stranger. He looked around, saw a glass of water on the counter, a scoured coffee cup and spoon laid out on a tea towel to dry. There was his copy of _A World of Sorcery_ , by William Woodbead, laid out on the counter nearby.

His heart warmed at the sight, before he sharply reminded himself that this was a very temporary arrangement.

The Floo chime went off, announcing his arrival, or perhaps questioning why he was standing in the hearth for so long.

"Hello?" Hermione queried from his bedroom.

"Just me," he called back. "Can I come in?"

"Give me a second," she replied, a bit croakily. "I'll be right out."

Draco waited, rummaging through his cupboards and wondering what he could throw together. It was a dim collection, and he chastised himself for not thinking to bring some take-away. He sliced cheese, sausage, and crusty bread onto a platter, along with some pickles that he favored.

He was in the midst of pouring pumpkin juice into some glasses when he heard the creaking of his bedroom door.

Sock-footed, in his shirt and drawstring pants, Hermione shuffled across the room in his direction. She'd pulled her hair into a ponytail and washed her face, but looked as if she'd spent the night with little sleep and many tears.

"How're you feeling?" he asked, motioning her to take the stool next to his at the table.

"Like shit," she replied in a monotone, avoiding his eyes. "How's the case developing?"

He pushed the platter of sliced food in her direction in response.

"No, really."

"Really. Bite of food for a bite of evidence."

"You can't do that."

He picked up a gherkin, biting into it with a crunch. " _Mmm_. This is delicious evidence. I'm so much closer to solving this case…"

She frowned at him, but picked up a slice of bread, picking at it.

"The analysis from Naomi's autopsy came back. Very interesting results."

Hermione left off her half-hearted chewing. " _And_?"

Draco pushed the platter at her again, taking a bite of sausage for himself and dipping it in mustard.

She took a slice of cheese instead, layering it over the bread and contemplating it more than she chewed.

It was enough for Draco. "She died as a result of Bundimun slug secretion and ammoniacum."

Hermione's hand dropped. " _What_?" He could see the spark of interest growing in her eyes. He nodded at her bread and cheese. She rolled her eyes and stuffed the combination into her mouth, swallowing with a sip of pumpkin juice.

"I've checked her list of orders. Bundimun slug secretion was a key ingredient in a hair care potion. Ammoniacum isn't in any of her recent or future orders. It wasn't even in her laboratory inventory."

The effect was instantaneous. Hermione's spine straightened, and she looked at him with renewed interest.

"This is sounding more and more like something intentional...not an accident," she said slowly, picking up a pickle and raising it to her lips. "Do we know who ordered the potion?" She ate the pickle before he could remind her.

"We do. I've sent a memo to the Aurors to bring her in for questioning. Another witch in Flagpole. And that's about it at the moment. I'm planning on returning to the Thiessen house this afternoon, do some more looking into whether or not she had ammoniacum in her house. The stuff stinks - there's got to be traces of it somewhere."

Without prompting this time, Hermione brought a slice of sausage to her lips. Draco followed suit with a pickle.

"I'll join you," Hermione said into the silence. He looked up to meet her eyes, but she was staring fixedly out his window. "I'm not accomplishing anything here. Would you mind if I shrunk a robe of yours temporarily?"

He hated to see her this subdued. Draco would have much rather faced a Hermione bristling with anger or plotting revenge.

"No problem. But, Hermione..."

"If he was there, I don't want to know," she said, her voice high-pitched. "I don't want to hear his _excuses_."

"When have I ever spoken up for _him_?" Draco shot back lightly, relieved that she wasn't making excuses for the Weasel's behavior. "No. Other fellow I never stand up for. Potter? Looks like he just broke his fist against the Weasel's hard head."

Hermione's amber eyes darted over, examining his face. For the first time, she looked him dead in the eye, and he could see the burgeoning hope among the despair.

When she didn't respond, he pressed further. "Evidently the little sister is going to rain hell down over the Weasel's head as well."

Her lip quivered, and Draco sensed the cracks in her facade.

"The one that runs that joke shop - George? - is stockpiling explosives against Ron's return," he continued. "And if _I_ find him first, no one will ever find his body. Slytherin's honor."

Hermione's chest heaved, and Draco went in for the coup de grace.

"I can't speak for the rest of the Weasley clan - but I would say the four of us are going to fight your corner no matter what. We love you, and Weasley being an arsehole doesn't change that." It was as close as he had ever dared come to his true feelings.

Hermione burst into tears, and Draco's shoulders slumped in relief. He scooted his stool next to hers, and she pressed her face against his shoulder as he wrapped an arm about her waist.

They stayed like that for many minutes, her hiccups and sobs absorbed into his frame. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if it was over, if she would take Ron back once the initial shock had dulled. But he'd never asked his mother that question, and he could not ask it now of Hermione.

Better just to treasure the time he was able to hold her.

Once she composed herself, Draco set about finding a set of robes for Hermione to modify, and she washed her face once more.

"Does Harry know where I am?" she called from his bathroom.

"No," Draco called back, flinging his good black silk dressing robe into a corner, rifling through his closet. "He probably suspects, but I haven't told him."

He found a good robe that was rather small on his frame, and figured Hermione would be able to shrink it with more ease. He passed it to her through the door, and a few minutes later she emerged, looking consciously determined.

He was just about to suggest a bit more lunch before leaving, when his Floo chimed again.

Hermione whirled, and Draco himself was a bit unsettled. This much traffic through his lonely flat was simply unheard of.

Andromeda's head, wreathed in flames, poked out of the coals.

"Oh, Draco!" she cried. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

To all the world, Meda looked as if she were genuinely sorry to interrupt her nephew at home. Draco knew her well enough, however, to spot a speculative gleam in her eye.

"But I'm not sorry to finally meet you, Miss Granger," she said, turning her head to regard Hermione, who summoned up a small smile. "Given how often Draco goes on about you..."

Draco fixed his aunt with a quelling stare.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Hermione replied, kneeling down to look Andromeda in the eye. "I'm going to guess that you are the phenomenal and formidable Andromeda Tonks?"

"My reputation precedes me," Meda said, preening a bit. "I should clarify that Draco only goes on in the most glowing of terms-"

"Meda, did you need something?" Draco's voice came out slightly higher than usual.

"Yes, I was hoping to catch you at home and invite you to dinner tonight," Meda replied casually. "Perhaps you'd like to join us, Miss Granger? I'm ordering Chinese take-away, and you could meet Teddy."

"Oh, I couldn't impose," Hermione demurred.

"Nonsense!" Andromeda exclaimed forcefully. "I won't hear of it. I know how Draco cooks, so Merlin knows what he just served you for lunch."

"Oh, he-" Hermione began, presumably in his defense, but Andromeda cut her off.

"Not to mention that I'm always looking for adults to talk to," she carried on. "Some days, I just talk to Teddy, and I'm hungry for more adult conversation."

"Well...then of course!" Hermione conceded, a trifle weakly.

"I'll expect the both of you at six on the dot. Have to keep Teddy on a regular schedule, after all!"

With a final triumphant smile (more of a smirk, Draco thought - he was an expert), Meda withdrew into the embers, leaving an awkward silence in her wake. Draco knew his cheeks were flaming, and he couldn't seem to make direct eye contact with his partner.

"You don't have to go," he offered up in a small voice. "Meda will understand. She doesn't even have to know why if you don't want her to..."

To his amazement, Hermione gave him another small smile. "She's something else, isn't she? And I've been meaning to meet her for a while – why not tonight?"

Draco made another sound of protest, but Hermione waved it off.

"I'd rather not think about _it_ tonight."

He could not deny her that.

* * *

Apparating outside the Thiessen home, now warded off from everyone without clearance through MLE, Draco noted how cold it felt in the empty house.

"Do you think it's all right to light a fire?" he asked Hermione, who was once again examining the pictures of Naomi and Nigel on the wall. "Smells are stronger when it's warmer."

Hermione frowned, pulling her gaze away from the photographs. "Maybe just a warming charm? We don't know what might have accidentally been spilled near a hearth."

"Good point." He flicked his wand, and felt his muscles relax as the room heated.

"I don't suppose we've heard how Nigel's doing?" Hermione asked quietly.

Draco shook his head. "We'll only hear if we need to call him in to corroborate evidence. But, as Bibulus didn't rage through our door this morning, I'm assuming he's as well as can be expected."

Hermione accepted this with a nod. "So...ammoniacum's found in some heavy-duty cleaning solutions. Think Naomi kept them under the sink?"

Draco felt a twinge of discomfort - he mostly cleaned up around his own flat with scouring spells. House-elves took care of the cleaning when he was growing up...and he'd been under the vague impression they kept them in storage closets. Surely not in the kitchen, so close to the food?

"Perhaps she had a storage closet?" he squeaked out, stooping to look under the basin, pulling out a bottle of Mrs. Scower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. "Don't suppose she would have kept much with a youngster in the house."

"Good point."

Draco's shot of pride in her praise dissolved the moment he uncorked the bottle. "Ugh." He peered at the ingredients label. "Smells pretty sour, but no ammoniacum listed."

"We can take it with us. Naomi might have used the bottle for something else, or perhaps Mrs. Scower's forgot to list that key ingredient."

Slowly, they made their way through the kitchen, the living room, and lingered long over the ruins of Naomi's laboratory. The list of suspect bottles and solutions, however, remained disappointingly short. Hermione scoured the bathroom, adding a glass bottle of perfume and an older bottle of diaper rash cure, despite Draco's insistence that no potion applied to an infant's arse would have that strong of a basic solution.

By the time they were finished, the sun had long ago set, and a glance at Draco's wristwatch revealed they had just fifteen minutes before they would be expected at Andromeda's house.

"We can drop this off at the lab before we go," Draco said, hefting the bag over his shoulder. "But you are not obligated to come. I can make excuses..." Or he would have a firm word with his aunt in private...

"You're only obligated to tell me that my hair looks okay," Hermione shot back, attempting a bit of humor.

"It won't after fifteen minutes with my nephew."

"I'm actually looking forward to it."


	13. Chapter 13

Hi all! I'm leaving to join my family in Texas - thank goodness, they're far away from the hurricane (pray or think good thoughts for the people of Houston). I'll try to keep up with updates, but I can't always guarantee it. The story is finished, and if I don't update over the next week or so, regular updates will follow when I return.

* * *

They arrived at the cottage via Floo, Hermione tumbling in after him in a cloud of ash and soot. They shook out their clothes, and Draco called a greeting.

"Dwaaa-cooo!" Teddy howled as he scampered down the hall, delight written all over his face, his hair a bright shade of blond. He stopped short a few inches from the fireplace, eyes wide at the sight of a stranger next to him.

"Teddy!" Draco cried back, kneeling down with his arms open. "Come here and meet Miss Hermione. She's my friend."

Teddy ducked his face into his cousin's robes. Draco twisted his lips and rolled his eyes. He met Hermione's eyes, and to his surprise, she grinned.

"Ah," she said out loud. "No one to share my chocolate frogs with, then. Such a shame."

" _I'll_ share your chocolate frogs, Hermione," Draco replied, ruffling Teddy's hair. "And I'm sure Aunt Meda would love them as well. It's a shame, though – so much easier to split it four ways than three."

Teddy buried his face further, little nose pressed into Draco's armpit. Rolling his eyes, Draco scooped the boy up and hefted him over a shoulder, carrying him towards the kitchen. A moment later, he heard giggles over his shoulder. A glance in the mirror to his side revealed Hermione poking her tongue out at the little boy.

"Welcome!" Andromeda stood at the threshold of the kitchen, a little bouquet of poinsettias in her hands. "Hermione, I'm so pleased to meet you! Although I was expecting a halo from Draco's description…" She dropped the flowers on the table and shook Hermione's hand.

"Meda, I found something of yours by the fireplace," Draco said, moving to deposit Teddy in Meda's arms. Under cover of transferring the boy, he hissed in an undertone. _"_ _Not a good time. Just broken up. Don't play games."_

"Ah! Just what I was looking for," Meda replied, transferring Teddy to her hip with a nod that Draco understood, one that reassured him and allowed the tendons in his neck to relax.

Andromeda turned to the boy in her arms. "Teddy, I need you to bring the big blanket from my room so we can sit on it. Can you do that?"

"Yes!" He scampered off down a hall, and she turned to her guest.

"Hermione, I hope you don't mind, but we just put the tree up today, and Teddy's got the idea that we can do an indoor picnic. I'm thinking that if he just associates it with a guest, he won't demand it for every meal."

Hermione's smile grew noticeably, and Draco could tell that Andromeda's lack of formality was not what she had expected. "Not a problem. I, ah, brought a slightly more adult beverage for us…" She pulled a bottle of white wine from her extendable bag. "And some chocolate frogs to share with Teddy later."

Draco wondered a moment when she'd had time to grab those items, before realizing she must have had them ready to go for the previous evening. Unaware of this, Andromeda's smile grew, approval in her eyes. They all turned at the sound of Teddy struggling to drag a large blanket down the hallway. Knowing that the boy wouldn't want help, Draco turned to the living room to remove the end tables by the couch, making room by the Christmas tree.

The Tonks Christmas tree hadn't changed much over the years, from what Draco had been able to gather. A squat tree at one side of the room, covered in multicolored fairy lights, with dozens of whimsical ornaments tethered to its branches. Tiny couples waltzed in one small snowglobe, while tiny porcelain birds squeaked and traded places, flying about the branches in feathery pastel flourishes.

"Oh, it's lovely!" Hermione exclaimed from behind him. Teddy hurried past her, dragging the blanket with him. He unrolled a small square of blanket, plunked himself down on it, and leaned back against the roll.

"Hey now," Draco called, crossing the room. "You need to make room on that blanket for my big bum, Teddy."

Teddy broke into giggles (as did the women), and began helping his cousin unroll the blanket and spread it across the carpet, rolling like a log himself. Andromeda chuckled and turned to retrieve the food, Hermione following.

Draco pricked his ears to try and hear their conversation, but all he could make out were the warm cello whispers of feminine communion. What he wouldn't give for an Extendable Ear at that moment…Teddy barreled into him, breaking his train of thought.

"Did you help Grandmum with the tree today?" he asked Teddy, who had turned his attention to the waltzing couples in the ornament.

"I put up glass," Teddy said, pointing proudly. "And the stars. Help Gramma with the socks."

"Socks?"

Teddy pointed to the fireplace from which he and Hermione had entered, and Draco realized for the first time that it was covered in socks, a collection of patterned, white, threadbare lumps tacked to the mantle. "For Santa for the house-elves."

"For the house-elves?" Hermione's voice echoed behind them.

"Yes," Andromeda confirmed. She sat down next to Teddy, easily placing a bowl of egg drop soup in front of herself and Draco. Hermione followed with spoons and a separate small bowl of diced bananas for Teddy. "We give all the socks for Santa Claus to take to the house-elves to help set them free."

Hermione hummed, but made no other comment as she sat down next to Draco, passing him a spoon. He darted a glance in her direction, finding her composed and mostly focused on attempting to spoon the egg drop soup into her mouth without spilling it down her jumper.

"Can I try?" Teddy had wolfed down his bananas and was looking hungrily at their soup.

"Well..." Andromeda looked as if she were hedging, considering the possibility that half of it would end up on the floor.

"You can," said Hermione, tipping a small amount of her bowl into Teddy's empty one. "But don't try the spoon - that doesn't seem to work on the floor. Drink it like this." She demonstrated, holding the bowl in both hands and drinking from the edge, abandoning the spoon.

"Huh. That's a lot easier," Draco chimed in, following Hermione's example.

Teddy watched them both, as closely as if they had been performing magic, and it would be his turn to try next. With a bit of effort, he put his chubby toddler hands underneath the bowl and lifted it to his lips. He smiled in triumph, and Hermione clapped her hands.

Draco caught Andromeda's approving gaze resting on his partner. It was much the way he'd imagined bringing a girl home to meet his parents...only they were sitting on the floor of Andromeda's cottage, instead of sitting in the massive dining room of the manor...and instead of running the gauntlet of his stone-faced parents, Hermione was charming his aunt and his cousin.

His heart gave a funny jolt, and he covered by opening a dish before them. "Fried rice, anyone?"

* * *

Some time later, when Teddy had pressed a copy of "The Fountain of Fair Fortune" into his hands for the umpteenth time, and Draco was engrossed in making the voices funny for him, he noticed Hermione and Andromeda. Both with glasses of wine, curled up on the settee, talking intently. In the pauses of his story, he could hear an indecipherable murmur, catching the words "tried," "promised," and "last-ditch."

Try as he might, he couldn't understand, and Teddy became impatient when he paused for too long. But at some point, in between "The Song of the Salamander" and "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs," Hermione joined them on the floor, their backs resting against the wall.

More comfortable with Hermione after she had shared her soup, Teddy sprawled across them, head cushioned between their shoulders, legs splayed across Hermione's thighs. By the time the story ended, his breathing evened into sleep.

Draco shut the book, peering over to look at the boy. His hair was now a curly brown, and his little hand held Hermione's jumper in a loose grip. "Someone's not so shy anymore."

"Out like a light," Hermione confirmed. A look back, and he realized that it was not just Teddy's head resting against his shoulder.

"And you?" he asked, mildly teasing.

"A good night's sleep, and I'll be on the mend."

He tried to meet her eyes, but she was looking down at Teddy, nestled between them. "What I wouldn't give to be that young again," she murmured. "No mistakes yet to be made."

"We're still young," he breathed, lightly bumping her knee with his own. "And I've made some pretty huge mistakes in that short amount of time. Some pretty brilliant moves, too, so I like to think it evens out."

"You'll get a crick in your backs if you sleep like that," Andromeda softly called across the room. "Draco, you can hand him to me, and I'll get him in his pajamas."

"I've got him," Hermione said, gently lifting the young boy up. "He's more in my lap, anyway."

Draco shook his head. "I'm used to playing second fiddle whenever he gets a new friend." But he walked over and gently extracted Hermione's hair from Teddy's hand as she passed him to Meda. The older woman shifted the boy in her arms, his head coming to rest against her neck.

"As for you two, I'm afraid the Floo's not working correctly. You'll need to apparate home if you want to be tucked in."

"The Floo's not working?" Draco narrowed his eyes disbelievingly. The fireplace was just across the room, and as far as he could tell, nothing had changed since they arrived.

"Afraid not," Andromeda replied equably. "But Hermione, there's someone outside who will see you home for the night."

Hermione tensed like a bowstring. But before Draco could do or say anything, she had taken three great strides to the window and had pulled back the curtain. At the sight of whatever was out there, her shoulders slumped.

"Hermione..." Draco said, taking a step forward.

She turned back to him, eyes teary and body slack with relief. "It's Harry."

Of course it was Potter. It was always Potter. Draco craned his neck and saw the other wizard standing in the snow, like a sentry at attention.

Andromeda moved forward, Teddy in one arm, Hermione's cloak in the other. She handed it to Draco with a little meaningful thump in his ribs, spurring him to action.

He wrapped it around her, squeezing her shoulders in a silent gesture of support.

"Thank you, Andromeda," Hermione croaked out. "Thank you for everything." Andromeda nodded and smiled in return, swiveling on her heel to put Teddy to bed.

Hermione turned to look at him, and Draco had to forcefully remind himself that she was not leaving for good. "Draco...I..."

Draco shook his head, waving away her thanks. "If you want to go with him, I'll watch till you leave. If not, you've always got a place with me." _Always_ , he added, but only in his head.

In a move so quick and unexpected that he might have dreamed it, Hermione stepped forward, kissing him on the cheek. Her lips were lighter than pixie wings, and he caught a whiff of her lotion, closing his eyes to preserve the memory.

Then she was out the door, clasping her cloak about her throat and striding briskly towards Potter. Draco watched from the doorway, feeling gusts of wind bite at his nose, his neck, everywhere but the small place where her lips had touched.

The two stood apart for a few moments, and Draco could see them speaking. The wind carried away their words, but Draco could see Hermione's pale face soften in the light of the cottage. Potter shook his head, looking indignant, lines of anger cracking his scarred face.

Hermione's chin dropped to her chest, and Draco watched as Potter pulled her into a hug. He watched as Potter pressed her head to his shoulder, murmuring something through the cloud of her hair. She clutched him back, the curves of her body relaxing. They stood like that for long moments, and, true to his word, Draco watched.

At length, Hermione turned, and waved to him. Draco waved back, watching until Potter took her hand and they both disappeared in a crack of apparition.

He sighed, pulling the air from his very bones, and shut the door.

Meda was waiting for him on the settee, glass of wine in her hand.

"Too soon," she said flatly. "And it's the reaction of her other friends that's of highest concern to her at the moment. A night with them will set her back on the road to normalcy."

Draco didn't need either preamble or explanation. "Wasn't planning on it," he sighed. "I'm no one's rebound man."

"I was able to sneak Ted away from a relationship with almost no roots at all. This one...she's been in love with him for years. Rush into a relationship right away, and you'll regret it. I would wait a while." She took a thoughtful sip. "Mind you, I was prepared to like her. But I don't think you could have chosen a better fit. She really is something."

"I have your approval, then?" he drawled, pouring himself a glass.

"Approval?" she snorted. "Parental approval doesn't mean a damn thing except getting together at Christmas and not having the house explode. I _like_ her. I like her even though she isn't with you. And I like the thought of her _with_ you. If that means something to you, then take it." Years past the scandal, and she was still living with the consequences. He did not begrudge her the bitterness of her words.

Draco slumped next to her on the settee. "It does," he replied quietly. "It means a lot."

He couldn't seem to reach her though, lost in thoughts of Ted and Nymphadora Tonks.

"He was worth it?" he asked, pulling the glass from her hand and taking a sip.

Andromeda's smile was genuine, pulled from the soles of her feet. "And then some."


	14. Chapter 14

Draco tossed that night under the sheets where Hermione had lain, as if her restlessness had been transferred to him. By morning, his bloodshot eyes disgusted even him, and the Pepper-Up Potion that he had taken to disguise it just made his ears smolder uncomfortably. He batted away the insistent smoke that curled about his temple and opened the door to the shared office.

To his surprise, Hermione was already there, having flipped the switch from calm and somewhat happier last night to someone on the edge of an ugly revelation. She was flipping through the parchments he'd left on her desk with one hand and tapping her wand nervously against the wood, sending up sparks.

"Hey," she greeted him, gesturing to his desk. "Took the liberty of bringing you coffee. But grab it and come over here, because you need to see this."

He glanced over to see a cup steaming on his desk, a little caught off-guard. "Thank you." He gestured toward the parchment.

"I was looking over the results you got yesterday," she continued, pulling out the autopsy report. "And I rushed the analysis of what we pulled from the house yesterday, and I've got nothing. But I did find something odd."

Hermione pulled another parchment from across her desk, showing the analysis of the cauldron shards. "I looked for anything out of the ordinary, and they did come across some traces of goosegrease – thick and hardened. It's an ointment, shouldn't be in a hair care product, at least according to the potions processes that Naomi was using. But we missed it because it's inert. Nothing harmful about it at all."

She pulled up the inventory of Naomi's potions lab, shoving it under Draco's nose. "And nothing in Naomi's inventory shows the presence of goosegrease. It shouldn't be there, just as much as the ammoniacum shouldn't be there. It's often used to prevent burns if someone is working closely with something volatile - like ammoniacum. It's hardened into capsules that contain the volatile substance."

"Then it looks deliberate," Draco chimed in, seeing the pieces beginning to fit together in his mind. "If it was a trace amount of ammoniacum from a previous potion in that cauldron, it should have started reacting with the other ingredients before the slug secretion was added. She would have noticed it."

He hooked his chair with an ankle, dragging it over to Hermione's desk and sitting down with a sigh. "Still doesn't get us any closer to figuring out who put it there, though."

Hermione pursed her lips. "I…I think I might have a clue on that." She didn't elaborate, though, and Draco looked up at her face. She looked pained, and he couldn't figure out why.

"Hermione?"

She looked at him, then, her mouth open. It was one of the rare times he'd ever seen Hermione Granger at a loss for words. "I think I know who, I just don't know _why_ ," she said in a whisper, pulling another parchment towards them.

The report listed a number of trace elements and suspected items identified by Butterfield – soap (brand undeterminable), toothpaste (brand undeterminable, but suspected flavor was mint), saline consistent with tears, traces of phlegm…and goosegrease.

He flipped to the top of the report, finding his name on it as collector of evidence. It was an analysis of what he'd pulled from Nigel Thiessen's hands in the hospital – on the day his mother had died.

Various scenarios popped into his head: Nigel attempting to help his mother by adding something he'd found to the cauldron. Nigel taking something from his mother's store of potions ingredients, forgetting which bottle it had come from, and tossing it into a random cauldron. Nigel switching out ingredients…but nothing that explained how the ammoniacum had come into his hands in the first place.

Draco lowered the parchment, slowly. "I…I don't understand."

Hermione shook her head, a bit more confident now that he'd come to the same conclusion. "Nor I."

He expelled a long sigh, then shook his head. "Do you think Family Services would let us talk to Nigel?"

"I think we've got a case for it," she replied, closing the folder of reports decisively. "Oakleaf bungled the questioning, and I would bet they never followed up – probably expected a potions mistake. We should at least get an idea of what happened in the house that morning. Nigel's the only witness we've got."

"Right." Draco rolled his chair over to his own desk, pulling out the evidence bag containing Nigel's good-luck charm. "Maybe this will get him to trust us?"

Three hours later, Draco, Hermione, and MLE Officer Azad ( _not_ Oakleaf, to Draco's intense relief) sat in the Spotswood kitchen, waiting for Emily Spotswood to wake Nigel up from a late-morning nap. The woman had looked slightly disapproving at their request to interview Nigel, noting that the boy had had trouble sleeping and frequently woke throughout the night, screaming in terror.

The makings of Christmas biscuits were piled on the counter, and an assortment of biscuit-cutters and several implements used to trace and cut out dough had been pushed aside on the kitchen table to make room for the Investigators to make their report. Instead of paper and quill for notes, however, a Quick-Quotes Quill hovered above a sheaf of parchment, out of the way, safe on the kitchen counter. Instead, all three adults were busy coloring.

Azad had insisted that they bring crayons and paper, something for Nigel to concentrate on while they were asking questions. She began drawing on the paper herself, noting that having four adults in the room focused on the child would probably make Nigel very nervous, eyeing the two of them sternly until they followed suit.

A hill of daffodils bloomed on Azad's paper, along with a smiling group of people he assumed were her family. Hermione (whose sketching abilities were a bit suspect) settled on an abstract pattern of diamonds in red and green.

Draco found himself sketching out a Quidditch pitch, the players high in the sky, a victorious pose by one green-clad athlete. Hermione looked over at his paper, raising an eyebrow.

"What?" he said, a bit more defensively than he'd intended.

Their argument was postponed by the arrival of Nigel, red-eyed and looking slightly grumpy. Draco couldn't really blame him.

"Now, Nigel, you remember Mister Draco and Miss Nini?" Mrs. Spotswood asked, using the names they had told her that Nigel would be most likely to recognize.

The boy looked at them briefly, but Draco saw no recognition in his eyes, only a great weariness. Nigel shrugged his shoulders.

Hermione shot Draco a worried look, but patted the seat next to her, between herself and Azad. "And this is Officer Leila. She's brought us some crayons and paper. We thought we could draw, and maybe ask you a few questions?"

Nigel shrugged again, but clambered up the chair in sock-clad feet. Azad pushed a piece of paper and some crayons at him. She took a fresh piece of paper on her own, and began drawing a cauldron, bubbling with a violet potion and curlicued vapors.

"What would you put in a potion like this, Nigel?" Azad asked, almost absently, as she added little green flecks to the surface of the potion.

Nigel just frowned. "Not supposed to touch potions."

Azad nodded, and began drawing pictures of other items – Draco recognized a bicorn horn, a shimmering vial of doxy eggs, daisy roots, and gillyweed. "But if you could make a potion, which of these ingredients would you put in? Don't worry, none of these questions will get you in trouble. I'm just curious."

Nigel looked up at her, as if expecting a trick, then pointed to the green tendrils of gillyweed.

"Good. Did your mother ever ask you to help with potions ingredients?"

Nigel shook his head.

"Did she ever bring them out of her workroom?"

Another head-shake.

"Did anyone ever give her potions ingredients to use?"

Nigel paused. "The man."

"What man?"

Nigel shrugged again. "He gave me something to give her."

Draco, who had long practice in schooling his expression, simply picked up a blue crayon to shade the sky. Hermione, however, had paused to peer at the boy, and Draco nudged her with his knee to bring her back into focus.

"Could you draw us a picture of it? I'm curious what it might bring to my potion." Azad's voice was blandly interested, involved in drawing more curlicues of steam.

Nigel nodded, but his hand hovered over the pile of crayons, indecisive. Draco flicked his eyes in the boy's direction.

Nigel's hand squeezed into a little fist, and Draco was surprised to see his arm trembling. "I don't...don't remember." he mumbled. A little tear slipped down his cheek.

Mrs. Spotswood, who had until that point been quietly chopping vegetables behind them, moved to comfort the boy. Hermione discreetly waved her off, earning a poisonous look from the older woman.

"That's okay," Azad reassured him, her voice light and comforting. "I'll just use a brown crayon. Do you remember if it smelled funny? I can add stink lines to my potion."

"No."

Azad reached for another sheaf of paper. "What about this man?" she continued, sketching the outline of a wizard in grey crayon. "Fat or skinny?"

"Skinny." Azad nodded, not adding to the drawing's waist.

"Black hair like me, blond like Draco, or brown like Nini?"

Nigel scrutinized them all carefully before pointing to Hermione, seated next to him.

"Brown," confirmed Azad, picking up a walnut-colored crayon and giving the man a coiffure. "Short like Draco's hair?"

Nigel nodded, growing more confident with every answer that he could provide.

"Long nose like Draco, or short nose like mine?"

Draco threw Azad a dark look.

"Like Draco!"

With a bit of a smirk, Azad sketched a long nose onto the blank face of the man.

"Did he wear black robes, or something else?"

Nigel nodded, and apparently, Azad took that to mean billowing ebony robes about the wizard.

"Did he have a wand?"

Nigel nodded, spacing his hands about a foot apart. Azad dutifully etched a wand into the figure's hand.

"Did he give you anything? Something besides the potions ingredients." Azad continued, casually embellishing the drawing's robes.

"The good-luck charms." Nigel stated simply.

"Oh! That thing you let me borrow?" Draco broke in, pulling the package out of his pocket. The little red disk spun on a pale beige string.

"He gave it to me," Nigel said, his eyes lighting up at the sight of it. "He gave one for Mummy's workshop. The other I was s'posed to keep."

Draco had already examined the spell on the good-luck charm. Nothing Dark, that much he could tell. Nothing that would compel someone handling it. The charm was unfamiliar, but he didn't think there was any risk in letting the boy have it again, especially since he'd been carrying it for so long.

Nigel looked oddly mesmerized by the little object, letting it swing back and forth on its string. His eyes followed it as Draco handed it over across the table, dangling across their drawings.

"Hermione, can you pass me a red crayon?" Azad's voice broke Nigel's reverie.

"You're not Nini?" he whispered, looking a bit confused and nervous.

"I go by Nini sometimes," Hermione said easily. "Hermione is hard for some people to say. I like the way Nini sounds."

She indicated the disk that he held. "Does it bring you good luck?"

Nigel frowned, but didn't answer. He looked instead as Azad drew a little red trinket in the figure's hand.

"He had a drawing on his arm," the boy said, resting his finger on the figure's left arm. Draco struggled mightily to keep any expression off of his face.

He thought that he'd banished the gesture entirely, but found himself tugging his left sleeve down more securely, past the tattoo on his arm.

"Spooky drawing or a cool drawing?" Hermione asked casually, adding a green diamond to her drawing.

Nigel still didn't answer, but took a black crayon, idly doodling on the paper with one hand while holding the charm in the other.

He could just show Nigel his arm, and confirm it. But would it confuse the boy? Would it trigger a memory? Would he start to identify Draco as the man in question instead? He'd read studies on how suggestible the juvenile mind was...and he'd had first-hand experience under Lucius's tutelage.

He inhaled deeply through his nose. He'd make the gesture.

"Leila?" he quiered, drawing her attention. "May I roll up my sleeves?"

Azad seemed to consider for a moment, then nodded.

"I'd completely forgotten," Hermione chuckled, nodding at him.

Draco drew his sleeves up to his elbows. "Nigel?" he asked softly, watching as the boy swirled the crayon around. "Would you take a look at the drawing on my arm and see if it's like the one that the man had?"

Nigel put down the crayon and looked over with interest, examining Draco's forearms.

Draco turned over his left arm, letting the boy get a good look at the Dark Mark branded in his skin. Nigel leaned closer, and he could see the boy's eyes trailing over the snake, lingering at the skull.

He nodded.

"Is that a yes or a no?" prompted Draco, hoping to get the answer on the Quick-Quotes Quill scribbling busily behind them.

Nigel didn't respond, only gripped the charm a little tighter. His other hand balled into a fist, his tiny knuckles going white under the pressure.

"Nigel?" Azad asked, concerned. "Are you all right?"

The boy's breathing became fast, a panicky rasping made no less frightening by his unfocused eyes. Draco became aware of another sound in the room, like a classroom whisper that he could just barely make out.

"... _kill_. _..like your mother..."_

"Do you hear that?" Hermione asked, eyes casting about the room for the source of the sound.

" _Do it, son._ "

"I'm afraid the three of you will have to leave!" Mrs. Spotswood broke in, slamming her hands, covered in celery slices and still clutching a paring knife on the table between Nigel and Azad. "You're upsetting him even more!"

Draco tried to quiet her, looking around wildly for something moving, glowing, spinning, something out of the ordinary.

"... _Nini_..."

The whisper was close, and this time, Azad and Mrs. Spotswood picked up on it as well, the latter's hands loosening and looking about in confusion.

"Where is that coming from?" Azad asked, looking behind her and moving closer to Draco. She brandished a wand, an experienced soldier through and through.

As the others looked around the room, Draco saw Nigel's head come up slowly, his features bland and unnaturally still. The motion filled Draco with unreasoning, gnawing fear. He'd seen something like it before.

"Nigel?"

The boy's head turned slowly, smoothly, and his eyes shone pale in the winter light.

Several things happened at once after that.

Draco was only aware of shouting " _He's_ -" before the words were choked off in horror.

Nigel's hand had moved stealthily towards Mrs. Spotswood before nipping the knife from where it rested on the table. In an effortless motion all the more chilling for his lack of expression, he gripped the knife firmly before turning to the other side and plunging it into Hermione's throat.

 _Blood over the crayon drawings._

 _Hermione's eyes wide, pained._

 _A croaking, wet gurgling that should come from no one's lips filling the room._

 _Belated screams from Spotswood._

Amongst all the impressions Draco could later piece together, he was still aware of whispering – coming from the little red disc on the table.

He scrabbled for the wand in his pocket before hitting Nigel with a Body-Bind Curse. The five-year old froze in place, teetering over and crashing to the floor. Azad ran over, cushioning the boy's head and pushing Spotswood back.

Draco flew out of his chair, kicking it behind him and clamping a hand over the wound in Hermione's neck. Her eyes met his, desperate, pained, panicked. Her hands flew up around his, making as if to pull out the knife. The horrible gurgling noise pitched higher and higher.

"No, no, don't pull it out!" he cried. "Throw that disc outside, Azad! It's controlling him!"

In a lower voice, he whispered. "Hold onto me. I'm going to get you out of here."

Her hands gripped his arm weakly, too weakly. The horrible croaking noise continued, as if Hermione was trying to speak. He knew she was just trying to breathe.

"Don't speak," he begged her. "Just breathe if you can!"

Turning his head, he snapped at Spotswood, "Disable the wards on your house!" He saw her fumble with a wand, and couldn't wait any longer.

He disapparated them, praying to Merlin that he could concentrate clearly on a picture of St. Mungo's waiting room. One moment they were in the midst of chaos, the next moment, they exploded into a quiet waiting room, bringing chaos with them.

" _I need help_!" Draco cried. "Hermione needs help! She's been stabbed!"

Through some miracle, the mostly incompetent and occasionally negligent hospital staff thundered from behind the waiting room desk. Whether they recognized the immediate need or reacted to Hermione's name, Draco didn't care. Nurses and doctors pulled her from his arms, applying pressure, performing spells that he didn't understand, immobilizing her in midair and floating her to treatment rooms. Her panicked eyes met his once, before disappearing behind a swirl of green robes.

Draco made to follow them, but stopped short at several wizards from the hospital's security team brandishing wands at him.

"You need to stay where you are," one of them said. "We need to sort this out."

Draco began to realize what it looked like – him gripping Hermione's neck with a knife sticking out of it, his robes and hands covered in blood.

"Bind me, immobilize me, _I don't care_ ," he growled, throwing his wand to the floor. "She's my partner and she was attacked on a case. I _need_ to know how she's doing."

"You idiots, he's with Investigations," a voice called out in irritation. Draco looked over in relief at Nurse Pipwell, who waved him over. "Investigator Malfoy, come over here. We'll keep you updated."

The wandpoints dropped, and Draco summoned his wand in irritation, his robes billowing behind him.

Pipwell guided him to a more private waiting room, gesturing to a padded chair. "I'll let you know the moment something changes, and we've already alerted your office. Is there anyone else who should know?"

"Potter," he croaked out. "He'll…he'll alert anyone else. Her family's in Australia…"

Pipwell cast a discerning eye over him. "I'll bring you some coffee. Shock's going to hit you any moment."

Draco slumped into the chair, watching Pipwell step away.

The sudden inaction seemed to reel all his emotions back in, a tidal wave of fear and anxiety hitting him.

Draco let his head fall into shaking hands still sticky with Hermione's blood, and his mind exploded like a cage of rats set free.

What if she didn't make it? What if she didn't make it?

 _Whatifshedidn'tmakeitwhatifshedidn'tmakeitwhatifshedidn'tmakeit…_


	15. Chapter 15

Later, _much_ later, after an officer from MLE took his statement, after he'd been given a moment to clean up and change into a set of robes provided by Oddsbodds, his boss pulled him aside and filled him in on what they had been able to piece together after the dramatic scene at the Spotswood cottage.

The older man kept trying to shove sandwiches and chocolate bars in his face. Draco took them out of politeness to his boss, but let them pile up on a table beside them. He had no appetite, was indeed, rather queasy.

Hermione was out of immediate danger, they were informed. The wound to her neck had been healed, but she was low on blood, and the newly healed tissue was delicate. She'd be staying at St. Mungo's for the next few days.

Draco slumped back into the chair. It felt as if he'd spent the past few hours with a vise around his lungs, and then someone had matter-of-factly snapped the restriction, letting the oxygen pour in. Oddsbodds smiled, but it was a defeated kind of smile. Investigators were rarely injured on the job, and it was usually considered a sign of failure or negligence on the department's part. Oddsbodds had always been protective of them - and now, to have one of his _wunderkinds_ nearly killed on the job...

"Can I see her?" Draco fought to control the tremor in his voice. He was aware of Oddsbodds' eyes on him.

"Of course." Pipwell paused. "Auror Potter and his fiancee have already been there, so I think she's alone."

"Tell her I'll come visit her tomorrow," Oddsbodds requested of Draco, taking the chocolate bars and stuffing them into Draco's cloak pockets. "I think seeing you would be more beneficial than seeing her supervisor."

Following the directions of a nurse, Draco loped through the halls, his mind both racing and standing still. He didn't know if he could believe it until he actually saw her. The relief of two minutes ago was gone. In its stead, that gnawing anxiety consumed his lungs. Gritting his teeth, he breathed through his nose and dodged a witch with tulips growing out of her armpits.

He never gave a thought to the idea that she might not be alone.

Ron Weasley had evidently taken it upon himself to rally those among the clan who would stand by him. There were the Weasley parents, two Weasley brothers, and some extended relations Draco vaguely recognized through the Sacred Twenty-Eight family trees from his youth.

Alone in the sea of ginger hair, Draco saw Hermione lying prone in a hospital bed, a mountain of red roses beside her, Ron pleading and pushing the ring at her.

"You just need to give me a chance...it was just a _stupid_ mistake...look, we both had our hang-ups on this, and I just acted stupidly..."

Hermione's eyes flickered, and landed on him in a sort of plea.

Weasley was not one for subtlety or changing his strategy. Where proposing in front of a large crowd had seemed to work for him the past, this tactic was only making Hermione more desperate to get away - trapped by his relatives and her own injured body.

"Admitting you're an idiot, Weasley? We already knew that," he sneered, drawing his backbone straight and his chin high, striding into the room with a swagger. "Now I need this room cleared. The MLE would like me to debrief Granger on today's events, and we don't need an audience."

Several of the Weasleys, who looked embarrassed enough at being there, began to file out of the room. Not so with the youngest member of the clan, who clenched his jaw and stood up to face Draco.

"Jog on, _Malfoy_. Trying to have a moment with my girl, here."

" _Really_." Draco infused the word with every last scalding drop of disdain he could manage. It turned out to be quite a bit. "All I can see is that Hermione's about five minutes from unconsciousness. The MLE would rather that she spent those five minutes on debriefings rather than listening to a weasel who will, most assuredly, still be _very_ sorry tomorrow. Probably long after that as well, but that's neither here nor there."

Ron's eyes sparked with quick anger, but Hermione lifted a hand. It seemed to Draco that it was a placating gesture at first, but then she grabbed a glass of water on the bedside table and flung it at Ron's head. Only through what Draco assumed were latent Quidditch skills was the ginger giant able to duck and avoid the glass as it shattered against the wall behind him.

"Ron, _leave_ ," she croaked, bandages unraveling from her neck, eyes sparkling with anger. "I need to debrief. And I'm _not_ your girl. Get your stuff _out_ of my flat and then _get lost_."

As one, the rest of the Weasley family departed from Hermione's room, Ron lingering and glaring at Draco, who glared right back. He turned on his heel with a loud squelch and retreated as well, settling with his family outside in the hallway, staring openly at the two of them in the room. Draco sighed and flicked his wand at the door. As an afterthought, he cast a Muffliato.

"Thank you," Hermione rasped, as he took Ron's vacated seat by her bedside. "They were driving me mad."

"Don't mention it," Draco replied, leaning forward. "Seriously, don't mention it. One, I don't think your vocal cords could take it. Two, there's an army of gingers sitting outside just waiting for an excuse to hex me."

She smirked, and Draco felt his stomach flip. "How are you feeling?"

"Better with you here." The smirk warmed to a smile.

It could not mean what he hoped it did. It could not. It did _not_.

Then the look fell away, to be replaced by concern that made his stomach knot. "Nigel?"

"Obliviated," he replied, softly, slouching into the chair next to her bed. "Doesn't remember a thing from the day before his mother died." Hermione's face relaxed, and he felt marginally better.

"You remember the Weasley joke shop's Extendable Ears?" he asked. "That was the charm on that little red disc. Only it's been modified - you can listen and speak through it - from great distances. We're assuming, anyway. But we can guess that whoever it was somehow got Nigel alone. From there, he gave the boy the charm, Imperius-ed him, then went on his merry way.

"From that point on, with the Extendable Ear, it was just a matter of waiting and listening. Figuring out their daily schedule, how Nigel could get into the workroom. Making Nigel forget that he was there. There is no Isla Islington - the order was a fake, just something he could use to make sure Naomi was working with the slug secretion."

"The ammoniacum in the potion," Hermione rasped. "He made Nigel do it. Gave him the goosegrease pellet of ammoniacum, then let the potion eat through it over a few minutes. Naomi didn't mess up the potion…and it wasn't Nigel's fault…"

"No, it wasn't," Draco replied, an uncomfortable memory of a shapely bartender gone pale-eyed and slack-faced slipping through his mind. "His twisted version of revenge."

"Bastard," Hermione replied, sounding choked. "That poor boy…"

"He won't remember it," Draco said, aiming for 'reassuring' in his voice. "But when he wakes up…his mum will still be dead and his father will still be a murdering bastard running free."

"You think it was his father?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Fathers aren't all they're cracked up to be," he brooded. "He's got motive. If Naomi thought she was safe enough to be pictured in the _Prophet_ with Nigel, it would have tipped this bastard off to the fact that she was still alive. Not only that, but she had a child who would be about the right age from when she was 'arrested' and taken away. He'd have probably surmised that she was a spy."

He looked away, focusing on the lump under the hospital sheets that was her feet. "And...do you remember what the voice in the Extendable Ear said?"

" _Do it, son_ ," she recited bleakly, focusing on her toes as well. After a moment's contemplation, she looked up at him again. "Is he in danger, do you think?"

"Not sure. It's possible. If the Death Eater responsible is willing to use the boy to murder his mother, he might be crazy enough to focus his hate on Nigel next. There are Aurors outside his room at the moment."

He paused, hoping to end on a slightly more positive note. "Bibulus is making noises about adopting him. I don't think anyone else could keep him safer."

Hermione smiled, then began coughing, a hideous, rasping sound. Belatedly, Draco glanced at the shards of the glass on the floor. He found another glass and used an Aguamenti charm to fill it full before pressing it into her hands. Propping her up, he allowed the warmth of her back to try and alleviate the ghost of her struggling for breath in his arms.

She sipped steadily, the water soothing her cough and easing her breathing. He took the glass from her, leaving it on the table, then repairing the shards on the floor.

"All right, then," he finished, using the excuse of leaving to grasp her hand in his own, squeeze it tightly. Moving on instinct the second after he decided it could be construed as a gentlemanly gesture, he lifted her knuckles to his lips, brushing them gently. "I'll see you Friday, then – if the hospital releases you."

He tried to release her hand, but she held fast. His heart jumped into his throat. "Please don't go – not yet," she rasped. "If you go, they'll come back in. If you could just wait a few more minutes – a nurse is supposed to come in, and you could just say that he gave me a sedative…"

Being used as an offensive guard against her ex-boyfriend was not exactly the role Draco had hoped to play in Hermione's life...but it didn't hurt to stay near her. He nodded, and noted with secret glee the look of relief on her face.

"So what should we talk and look very serious about while we're being watched?" he asked, determinedly not looking at the Weasleys glaring at him from the little window in the hospital door.

"Anything, really," Hermione said, looking drawn and much too pale.

"I could recite Quidditch scores-"

" _No_."

"High on a hill, in an enchanted garden, enclosed by tall walls and protected by strong magic, flowed the Fountain of Fair Fortune," he began slowly. "Once a year, between the hours of sunrise and sunset on the longest day, a single unfortunate was given the chance to fight their way to the Fountain, bathe in its waters, and receive Fair Fortune forevermore."

Her lips began moving soundlessly, and he realized she was reciting the lines with him. Greatly daring, he reached out two fingers, using them to embrace her thumb, where he could feel her pulse beat. He'd almost lost this – almost lost her. His own heart skipped a beat when she curled her thumb around his fingers, answering back his small embrace.

His heart was screaming, _screaming_ , a muscle moving independently of the rest of him and trying to make him say things he should not, not for some time.

He was Sir Luckless, he'd known this for years.

But he would not be thus forever. And when time had passed, when fortune was more in his favor, he would pursue his Amata.

He continued reading aloud until she'd fallen asleep, then a bit longer. Then he leaned back against the wall, keeping watch as he could only assume a knight would.

* * *

 _There is no remedy for love, but to love more. - Henry David Thoreau_

* * *

Thank you, everyone for reading and suffering with Draco! This story will be continued in its third and final part, posted hopefully sooner rather than later. I want to finish it completely before beginning to post it, and I'm struggling over one plot point. I may write it both ways and see which one makes more sense before I begin posting it. Again, thank you to everyone for reading (and especially to those of you who reviewed!)

References to Sir Luckless and Amata can be found in Beedle the Bard's tale of "The Fountain of Fair Fortune."


End file.
